The Oyster

by Peer

CHAPTER VII

Spring rioting, chill and bleak, crushing the coming summer in its impish hands. A day when cold came creeping under doors, sat even by the fire and would not be denied.

Looking into her draped glass Esmé was struck by new lines in her face, by a loss of her dazzling youth, by a tired look in her eyes. Discontent, weariness, were writing their names on her skin.

Bertie would be home early. She had been lazy and not gone to the ship to meet him. He was coming to breakfast, the fires were smouldering in the sitting-room, the new housemaid reasonably desirous of "gaus." Esmé, in her prettiest wrapper, shivered and grew irritable. She had ordered an elaborate breakfast, but the new cook was a failure; the fish was sodden, the bacon half raw, the hot bread mere heated bakers' scones.

Esmé recalled the breakfasts at Coombe Regis, at Harlands. She flung out at the maids. Ordered new dishes angrily. Oh, it was hateful not to have things right. Her old gaiety had left her. She would have laughed a year ago and boiled eggs on a spirit lamp. Bertie at last, running up, catching her in his arms, holding her close.

"Esmé, my dear old butterfly. My sweetheart. Oh, it's good to be back again here with you. Breakfast, Es, I'm starving."

So big and boyish and loving. She clung to him and found discontent even there. She had cheated her man. There was a secret to be hidden from him for ever. And where were all the comforts she had dreamt of with her income? Where were they?

"Breakfast." Esmé rang the bell.

"Cook is grilling the bacon, mem. It will take ten minutes." So Bertie had to wait, and then eat cold eggs and burnt bacon, and drink stewed tea. But he was happy.

"Extravagance," he said. "My silken-winged butterfly, that's a new gown of fluff and laces."

"You don't expect me to have all last year's, do you?" Esmé almost snapped, then leant against him. He held her closely, loving the warm suppleness of her body, the scent of her burnished hair, his lips were hot on the satin smoothness of her skin.

"But, Es sweetheart, you're thinner," he whispered, "and looking sadly. We'll have a week away, just you and I, in Paris. You must be rich now with no house all this winter."

Esmé slipped away from him and fidgeted as she lighted a cigarette.

"Oh, Bertie, you've seen about the accident. You're heir now."

"The place is entailed," he said. "It's worth nothing. But the old man's money is his own. He may leave it to me. If we had a boy he might, no doubt he would."

Esmé flushed scarlet, turning away. The cold day grew colder. Try as she would, the old happy intimacy, their careless happy youth, would not come back. Before, she had told Bertie everything. Now if he knew, if he knew.

Her husband seemed to have grown older, graver, to be less boyish. He talked of one or two things as extravagant. They discussed Aldershot and he spoke of lodgings. Houses were impossible there.

Esmé grew petulant. Lodgings, she had seen them. Chops for dinner and cold meat and salad for lunch. They must find a house. They'd heaps of money.

They went out to luncheon, telephoned a table at the Berkeley, ordered their favourite dishes recklessly. Esmé came down in the Paris coat, open to show the blue and silver lining.

"Butterfly! What a coat," her husband exclaimed at its beauty. "Where did you get it?"

Esmé hesitated, told half the truth.

"Denise gave it to me," she said slowly. "You see I did a lot for her."

Bertie was his old self then, foolishly merry. They must go up Bond Street and order a limousine to go with the coat. It couldn't sit in taxis. When it was off in the restaurant he saw the cunning beauty of a Paris frock, a black one, the old pendant of emeralds gleaming against real lace.

It was too cold, too bitter to walk about. They rang up friends, played bridge. Esmé ordered dinner at the flat, asked Dolly to come down and bring a man, then telephoned imperiously to the new cook.

"Dinner for four, order what you want. It must be nice, remember. It must be. Get some forced things, sweets, have salmon. Use your wits."

"It is a dear little hole. I'll be sorry to leave it," Bertie said, as they came back to the brightly-lighted little drawing-room. "Why do you want to, girlie?"

"It's so out of the way," Esmé grumbled.

The new maid put her into a dress of clinging black. One must mourn for first cousins.

Dolly was full of curiosity. Bertie was heir now. It was quite a change. "So nice, dear Esmé, to come to one of your wonderful little dinners again."

The only wonder of this dinner was its expense. The new cook had gone to Harrod's stores, chosen everything which cost money. Tinned turtle soup, plain boiled salmon, tinned and truffled entrée, tinned chicken, and a bought sweet.

Esmé grew angrier as it went on. Hated the guests' lack of appetite, their polite declaimers as she abused her food.

"I begin to hate this place," Esmé stormed to Dolly. "It's too small, good servants won't come here. Hardness was a good chance. She's gone to Denise Blakeney now, she can afford to pay her what she wanted, I couldn't."

Cards too went against Esmé. She lost and lost again, made declarations which depended on luck, and found it desert her. They did not play for high points, but she made side bets, and it mounted up. She cut with Bertie, saw his eyebrows raise as she went a reckless no trumper.

"My dear, what had you got?" he asked.

"Oh, a king and ace. I expected something above a ten from you, Bertie."

The Midshires were coming to Aldershot at once. Esmé had never been with the regiment. She did not want to leave London. She coaxed Bertie next day. Why not wait for another adjutancy, leave her in the flat, he could come up so often.

But the very weapons she used turned against her, the caress of her lips, her clinging arms were not things to leave. No, she must come to Aldershot. They would find a house and be happy there.

"And the bills, sweetheart?" Bertie Carteret had always seen to them. "I suppose you paid up all the old ones so we'll start fresh."

Esmé had forgotten her bills. She was irritable over money, cried out that her husband had learnt miser's thoughts in South Africa. "You fell in love with a good housewife there, Bert," she mocked, "who fried the cold potatoes of overnight for breakfast. Come, confess.... We've heaps of money to be foolish on, don't bother."

"There was never a penny left over," he said. "If we were sick, or if, well, anything happened we had no margin." Esmé frowned sullenly.

Two hours later she was rung up at her club.

"Esmé, I've seen Uncle Hugh, he wired for me. He is going to live in London, and he wants to make arrangements. Meet me at once. Where? Oh, the Carlton will do."

Erratically dreaming of riches Esmé left a game of bridge and flew off to the big restaurant. It was crowded for tea-time, people gathering at the little tables. The cold air called for furs. Their rich softness was everywhere, and among them all Esmé felt her coat attracted admiring eyes. Over her black dress, the blue lining brilliant over the dark, with her hair massed against a dead black hat, Esmé was remarkable.

"An actress?" she heard a woman ask. What Esmé would call a stodgy woman, expensively dressed, a country cousin with a London friend.

"No, a Mrs Carteret, remarkable-looking, isn't she?"

"Well, Bertie. What is it?" Esmé could scarcely wait as her husband ordered tea. "What has Uncle Hugh done?"

"Well, nothing. It is all for your approval, but Uncle Hugh is lonely. He wants his nephew to live near him. There is a great deal of business to see to. The Seaford estate and the Devonshire place, he farmed both. Uncle Hugh found the journeying trying." Briefly, he offered to pay Bertie the same pay as he had drawn from the Army, together with travelling expenses, if he would stay in London and go down to these places when necessary. No more.

"He hasn't promised to leave you the money then?" Esmé asked. "Oh, it suits me splendidly, I hated leaving town."

"No." Bertie Carteret shook his head. "He has promised me nothing, merely that I shall not lose through leaving the Army, nothing more."

Esmé grew angry then, abused the rich old man, forgot his trouble in her annoyance.

"He has so much. Why should we starve now when we are young?" she flashed.

"We have never quite starved, Es." Bertie Carteret laughed, then looked grave. "I thought we were so comfortable, so happy."

"One seems to want more and more as one lives in town." Esmé looked sullen. She too had thought the same, less than a year ago. Been so sure of it that she hated the thought of the third being who would have disturbed their peace. And now with so much more money she seemed poorer.

"That is a wonderful coat." Bertie looked admiringly at his wife. "You're wonderful altogether, Esmé, this time. With the stamp of Paris on your frocks. But of course Denise gave you heaps of things. You did a lot for her."

Esmé began to plan, to grow brighter. "We must take a little house, Bertie, get away from that box, nearer our friends."

"But we shall be no better off," he said.

"Oh, you must get money out of the old man. We'll save the rent on taxis. Who is it, Bertie?"

For Bertie had jumped up and was shaking hands with a slim girl of about twenty. Brown-haired, grey-eyed, pretty in a quiet way.

"It's Miss Reynolds," he said. "Miss Reynolds, Esmé. Mrs Reynolds was so kind to me at Pretoria when I was ill."

"Ill!" Esmé held out a jewelled hand. "I thought it was only repentance and indigestion."

"It was fever." Estelle Reynolds's voice was slow and musical, restful as her gentle face. "Captain Carteret was very ill, and my uncle tried to cure him."

"No idea," said Esmé. "I'd no idea. But so good of you.... Bertie, you should have told me." She was honestly fond of her husband.

"He did not want to worry you," said Estelle Reynolds.

Carteret was impressively glad to see Estelle. He talked eagerly of a dinner, a theatre.

His eagerness vexed his wife. She got up, dazzlingly handsome in her furs, the emeralds gleaming on her black gown.

"So sorry, Bertie, but this week is quite full, every day. Come to luncheon on Sunday, Miss Reynolds. I'll have some people to meet you."

Estelle laughed pleasantly. "My Sunday will be a country cousin's," she said. "Church, a very short luncheon, and the Albert Hall. You see, I've never been to London before." The girl looked a little hurt, a little snubbed.

"And I said I'd show it to you." Carteret let his wife walk on. "I'm not engaged. Let me take you and your aunt to Daly's to-night and on to the Savoy."

"Comic opera." Estelle shook her brown head. "If it might be the Shakespearian piece at His Majesty's. I should love to come."

It did not seem to suggest itself to Estelle to ask if Bertie Carteret's wife might wish to include him in her engagements. Esmé was one of those women who seem to stand alone.

"Very well then. I'll get seats at once," he said.

Making his way past little tables to the passage down the centre of the restaurant, Bertie stood for a moment looking from one woman to another.

Estelle Reynolds had gone back to her tea. She was not remarkable in any way, merely a rather dowdy girl sitting alone at a little table. Esmé had stopped to speak to friends near the door. She was brilliantly handsome, flashing out gay smiles, the mirthless smile of society, and splendidly dressed. As it grew thinner her face gave promise of hardness; she had replaced her lost colour very cunningly with some rose bloom. Carteret followed her slowly. He loved his wife, her touch, a look from her blue eyes always had power to move him, but he realized suddenly that she was too brilliant, too well-dressed for a foot-soldier's wife.

She was talking to Luke Holbrook, smiling at him, but the smile had lost its girlish charm; the kindly man who had been willing to help a young couple not well off had no idea of losing money to this brilliant woman.

Holbrook was always simply open as to his trade.

"I didn't forget your bundle of wines, fairest lady, they went on to-day." Mr Holbrook started and put up his glasses. "My love," he said, turning to his wife, "I see Lord Boredom taking tea with Miss Moover, and Mr Critennery is over there alone. My love, I fear I did not advance our interests by that most unfortunate invitation."

"The Duchess," said Mrs Holbrook, "will have a stroke. No one ever broke Miss Mavis Moover's occupation to her Grace."

"Ready, Esmé? You want a taxi back. Very well." Carteret went to the door. Before he had gone away Esmé had been quite content to take the motor 'bus which set them nearly at their door, or to go by tube. He sighed a little as he feed the gigantic person who hailed the cab for him.

"They've either come into some money, my love, or it is the Italian Prince whom Dollie Cavendish hints at," said Luke Holbrook, thoughtfully.

"What a dowdy little friend," yawned Esmé as they sped down Piccadilly. "What clothes, Bertie. I could only ask her to a frumpy luncheon."

"They were very good to me out there," he said quickly. "And ... I did not notice Miss Reynolds's dowdiness."

"No, one wouldn't. She is the kind of thing who goes with dowdiness. All flat hair and plaintive eyes." Esmé laughed. "Is she the good housekeeper who made you careful, Bertie? Eh?"

He looked out without answering. Something was coming between him and his wife. A rift, opening slowly in the groundwork of their love and happiness. She had changed.

Carteret's papers went in. They settled in London. Esmé looked for a house, fretting because she could not find one they could afford. Esmé often fretted as cold March was pushed away by April. She was restless, never quiet, unable to spend an hour at home by herself. Everything seemed to cost more than it had. People gave up the little kindnesses which she had counted. She was not paid for at theatres, nor sent flowers and fruit.

"The Carterets must have come into money," people said carelessly. "Esmé's simply gorgeously clothed, and they're looking for a house. Of course he's heir to old Hugh's place now."

More than once Bertie included Estelle Reynolds in their parties. She came, enjoying everything almost childishly; never tired of looking at the London streets with their roaring traffic. Hanging on every word at theatres, openly delighted with the dishes at smart restaurants.

"Everyone is so rich here," said Estelle in wonder. "They pay and pay and pay all round us."

They were lunching at Jules, and Esmé had carelessly ordered one or two things out of season. Estelle had watched the gold coins put on the folded bill.

"You would not be so extravagant, I imagine," Esmé laughed. She neither liked nor disliked the quiet girl, even found her useful now to do forgotten errands at the shops, to write her letters for her while Esmé lounged back smoking, to go off in the rain for a book which must be read immediately. For, wanting anything, Esmé could never wait. She snapped at her share of life, to fling it away barely tasted. Estelle came oftener and oftener to the flat. Settled flowers, put out sweets for dinner, had the bridge tables ready, and then went away. She was always useful, always willing to help.

"Extravagant!" Estelle answered. "No, I'd lunch at home."

"Off chops and fried potatoes," said Esmé, taking asparagus.

"If you go to the Club mankind invariably lunches off chops and steak," broke in Bertie. "Women are the lovers of fluffy dishes; they please 'em, I suppose, as new dresses do, because poor people can't have them."

"Estelle would lunch at home," laughed Esmé, "and go in a 'bus to see the shops in Regent Street, or perhaps to the National Gallery or the White City, and come home to make a new savoury which she had seen in Home Instructions, and do her accounts after dinner. Eh, little home bird?"

"Yes," said Estelle, simply. "Only I wouldn't live in London at all. I would make the country my stable meal, my chops and fried potatoes, and London my occasional savoury bonne bouche. I should choke in a town."

Esmé laughed. "How absurd," she flashed out. "Now, be good children. I go to sell pieces of cloth at completely ruinous prices to aid something in distress. I know not what."

"Shall I take you home, Estelle?" Carteret stood looking out into the sunshine. "Lord, what I'd give to live in the country. To see green fields all round and have a horse or two in the winter, and laze over a big log fire when the day was done. But somehow, here, there is never an hour to laze in."

Hugh Carteret, grief stricken, had so far not seen his nephew's wife. Bertie was doing his work, going down occasionally to see the big places and look over the accounts with the stewards.

About a month after he had come back from South Africa, Esmé's first reckoning for extravagance was upon her. Unpaid accounts littered the table. Harrod's deposit was overdrawn. She sat frowning and petulant, as Bertie jotted down totals.

"We can't do it, Esmé; there are all the old bills left unpaid. We managed so well before."

Esmé smoked furiously, flung the thin papers about. People were robbers, her cook a fool.

"But we are not often in. You weren't even at home. It's beyond one, Butterfly; debt won't do. And then your frocks and frills."

"I can pay for those," Esmé was going to say, then stopped. How much of her five hundred, her scant allowance, had she anticipated. Then there would be a visit to Scotland, and she wanted to hunt. She could not spare much of it; fifty of it must go to the French dressmaker, another fifty to a jeweller. "Oh, it's sickening," she flung out in sudden petulant anger. "Sickening. Poverty is too hateful."

Bertie had to listen to an outburst of grumbling, of fretful wrath, because their income was not double its size. To be pinched, cramped when one was young, to be worried by bills, bothered by meannesses.

Bertie Carteret's face grew pale. He stood up, gathering the bills. "I had no idea that you were unhappy, Es," he said slowly. "We used to manage so well before I left. It was all sunshine then. I have some money I can dig out; we'll pay the bills and start again. Give me all yours to see."

Indulgence made Esmé penitent, almost grateful. That was right. Now Bertie was a dear, a sweet old boy. And they'd have a lovely summer, just as last year's had been.

She came over and sat on Bertie's knee, her face pressed against his, the perfume of her golden hair in his nostrils.

But with her soft arm about his neck, her supple body in his arms, Bertie Carteret did not hold her closer; she missed his quick sigh at her contact, the hotness of his kisses on her neck.

"Bertie, dear old Bert."

But as she moved her face a little he could see between him and the light the skilfully-applied red on her cheeks, the coating of powder round it. It was not love for him which brought her to him, but selfish relief at being released from worry. "Poor Butterfly," he said, kissing her gently. "It shall flutter through its summer. But spent capital means less income, Esmé, remember that."

"Oh, here's the wine account." He sighed again, looking at it. Esmé ran her finger down the items, there were no wholesale prices now. The hock was at its full value, the bill a heavy one. Jumping up, she railed at Luke Holbrook, called him traitor and mean and treacherous. Swore that if she could help it he would not get his peerage.

"The lilies and carnations, madam," said the tall maid, coming in with a bundle of flowers.

"Leave them there, Miss Reynolds will settle them for me, she is coming to lunch. And your Uncle Hugh, Bertie, I had forgotten."

"You'll have to take to cheaper flowers," said Carteret; "after all, they wither just as soon."

"I cannot skimp over flowers, Bert, I cannot." Esmé went off to dress.

"What could she skimp over?" Bertie wondered.

Estelle Reynolds came in quietly, smiled good morning, began quite naturally to get the vases ready. "How glorious they are," she said, as she put the long-stemmed forced carnations into slender silver vases. "They must cost a fortune now."

"They do." Bertie was writing to his broker. "They do, Estelle. Everything costs a fortune here just now. But we must come to the humble sweet peas next week, or something of its class. What a housekeeper you would make, Estelle."

"Would I?" She hid the pain in her soft grey eyes, turned suddenly away. One of the foolish women whose joy lies in sacrifice, who find stupid satisfaction in balanced accounts, in saving for the man who works for them, who in some mysterious way stretches the weekly allowance when the children come, and finds only happiness in the giving up to do it. A homely little brown thrush, looking, wondering at a world of gay-plumaged songless birds.

"I." Estelle's eyes were under her control again. She smiled bravely. "I am one of the dowdy people who like to mess in the kitchen and dust, value a pleasure for what it costs ... it's childish."

"The fault of the world's inhabitants is that they are stamping out childishness," he said slowly. "They have forgotten to take joy in blue skies and green fields because it costs them nothing to look at them; they are forgetting how to enjoy themselves except in herds. If we have Irish stew at a shooting lunch it must be spoilt by half a dozen expensive flavourings lest my Lady Sue or Madame Sally should say we are so poor that we can only afford mutton and potatoes and onions. Even the children must have tea at Charbonel's and sweets from Buzzard or Fuller, though possibly a packet of butterscotch or home-made toffee would be much more to their taste...."

Estelle laughed.

"I took the Handelle children out last week," she said. "Their mother asked me to—you remember you took me once there to sing and she's been kind to me—and we went on the top of a 'bus, and had tea at Lyon's, bought flowers at Piccadilly Circus, and oh, they did enjoy themselves, but Lady Eva was quite shocked."

"Oh, Estelle, thank you." Esmé came back, radiant in clinging black, the emeralds shining at her bare throat, a big hat framing her face.

Hugh Carteret came just then. An old man, deep lines of sorrow drawn on his face, shrinking visibly from any allusion to his loss, suffering from the grief which finds no relief in words. He was cold before Esmé's gush of greeting, looked at her critically and made scant response to her smiles.

"It was so good of him to come, they were hidden away down here. And oh, they did want to change and get a house farther west."

"Why not then?" Hugh Carteret asked.

"The dreadful rents," Esmé answered. "We can't afford it. And we do want to move. The flat is so stuffy, so small."

"It seems big enough for two," Colonel Carteret answered, looking hard at Esmé. "Of course, if you had children I could understand."

"Oh, we couldn't afford children," she said, flinging a wistful note in her voice. And one not altogether feigned, for as she spoke she remembered the boy who was growing strong in the nursery at Grosvenor Square.

"Mrs Gresham," announced the maid.

"I'd no idea it was a party." Colonel Carteret looked at his black clothes and spoke reproachfully.

"It wasn't. Dollie Gresham was not asked, uncle."

Dollie made it plain in a minute. She knew Esmé was at home; she'd asked the maid and she came along.

"It's about a bazaar, Esmé. I want someone to help me to get one up for that new little hospital. Denise Blakeney would help Susie Handelle. We'd run it, you and I."

Through an elaborate, expensive lunch old Colonel Carteret was almost silent. The vol au vent of truffled chicken had given way for forced fruit before Estelle got him to talk to her. He thawed before her gentle voice, a shy, troubled old man, numbed still by his loss. His boys had been his all. He could not realize that they had left him. He had saved, planned, improved for Cyril and George; now mechanically, because the places were there, he carried it on. He had seen very little of Esmé; until his boys' deaths he had been wrapped up in them, never mixing in Society. Now he looked at the expensive flowers in Venetian glasses; he tasted elaborate made dishes, forced fruits, ices, and once or twice he shook his head as if at some inward thoughts.

Dollie Gresham chattered of her bazaar. It was just the time for one, they would start it at once. Restlessly energetic, she went to the telephone after luncheon, rang up Denise Blakeney.

"Yes, Denise will help sell. Only think, Esmé"—this after a long pause—"Sir Cyril's given her another car, and that diamond pendant of old Lady Gilby's, you know, the one he was selling. Since that boy came"—Dollie hung up the receiver—"Denise gets all she wants, and a great deal more. She is simply, tiresomely happy, adores dear Cyril, and has a convenient memory for the past. Tiens, such is life."

Esmé's face was set, sullen, as she listened. Denise had everything. Denise was not generous; there were so many things which she could have given, yet the very tie between the two women seemed to destroy their old friendship.

In the flower-decked, richly-furnished little drawing-room old Hugh Carteret talked to Estelle. He looked bewildered, puzzled.

"Bertie told me they were not rich," he said. "Yet the place seems to me to be almost too luxurious, that they lack nothing."

"I think"—Estelle fidgeted a little, her grey eyes distressed—"that Esmé is very young, that she perhaps grasps at things, so to speak, perhaps spends a little more than she ought to."

"I am a judge of wines." Hugh Carteret nodded. "The hock was one of the best, the old brandy cost fourteen or fifteen shillings a bottle, the port was vintage. I tasted them all." He shook his head again.

Esmé, coming in, sat by him, tried every trick she knew of winning glance and smile. But her childish charm had left her; she could only hark back to her poverty, to her want of money, and each half-veiled appeal left the old man silent.

"You present-day women want too much," he said quietly. "You won't be content. You live too much for yourselves; if you had children now"—he stopped, his voice breaking. "I tell you what," he said, "if you are really hard up you can have Cliff End rent free. It's lovely there, close to the sea, and the staghounds to hunt with."

Esmé knew where it was, an old house croaking on the cliffs of Devon, near a country town, a place without society, without amusements. She shivered.

"It would be too big for us," she said, trying to speak gratefully. "Far too large to keep up; but thank you greatly, dear uncle."

"And too far from shopland," he said in his shy, shrewd way. "Yes, well, my dear, it was a mere idea."

"He'll do nothing for us, old miser," Esmé flung out in anger almost before the old man had left. "He is hateful, Bertie, your old uncle."

"Perhaps, looking round him, he does not think there is much to be done," said Bertie, drily. "I am very fond of old Uncle Hugh."

They drove up to Grosvenor Gate, strolled into the Park—the April day had tempted people out there; the beds were a glory of wall-flowers and spring bulbs. A green limousine, purring silently, pulled up close to them. Esmé turned swiftly; it held Lady Blakeney and the nurse, who carried an elaborately-dressed bundle of babyhood.

"Wait here." Denise, jumping out lightly, ran across to speak to friends. She was radiant, brilliant in her happiness, a woman without sufficient brain to feel remorse.

"Oh, Mrs Stanson, let me see him."

Esmé went to the side of the car; she had not dared lately to go up to the nursery at Grosvenor Square. Denise had forbidden it.

Mrs Stanson got down, holding the rosy, healthy boy; he chuckled, his blue eyes blinking, a picture of contented, soft-fleshed, mindless life. His mittened fingers closed round Esmé's as she looked into his face. Hers this healthy atom—hers, and Denise was rich, happy, contented because of him, while she, his mother, wanted everything.

"What a lovely mite." Bertie Carteret bent over the smiling baby. "He's got eyes of your colour, Esmé, true forget-me-nots."

"Yes. You do mind him well, nurse. Her ladyship—"

"It was great coaxing to get her ladyship to bring him out to-day," the woman said carelessly. "She's not like you, Mrs Carteret; she doesn't like these small things."

"Oh, yes, Esmé"—Denise came back—"looking at the Baa. He's a fine specimen, isn't he? Cyril gives him this car for himself, and a new one to me. Come and see me soon, won't you? Lancaster Gate, Hillyard—Lady Mary Graves's house. Bundle in that infant, Mrs Stanson, and if he cries I get out."

The car glided on. Esmé watched it going, with a sullen anger at her heart; she had to clench her hands to keep quiet. Did Denise never think? Had she no gratitude—no conscience—no regret for her successful fraud? None, it would seem.

"Esmé, you look quite white." Dollie Gresham's spiteful little giggle rang out close by. "Are you coming on to play bridge with me?"

"Not to-day, Dollie. I've a shocking headache. I'll go home and rest."

"It must be bad," said Dollie, "to take you to your fireside. Was the sight of that wonderful son and heir too much for you?—that Bayard among babies? Sans peur et sans reproche."

"You do look seedy, child." Bertie took Esmé to the gate and drove her back.

She lighted the gas stove—the flat teemed in labour-saving annoyances—and sat by it, the heat making the perfume of the flowers almost overpowering.

Bertie got her hot tea, sat with her, some of the old loving comradeship springing up between them.

"That little chap made me envious, Es," he said, after a long silence.

"Bertie—surely you wouldn't like a child?" Esmé's voice rang shrilly. "Surely you wouldn't. Coming to disturb us, crippling us!"

"People manage," he said slowly. "They manage. We could have gone out of London, lived more quietly. Every man wants his son, Butterfly; they are selfish people, you know."

"You'd like one?" The shrillness died out of Esmé's voice, it grew strained.

"And after all better spend money on a little chap than waste it on Holbrook's wines and old brandies," he said. "Yes, it's the one thing I've wanted, Es—just to make our lives perfect. Monsieur, Madame, et Bebe; marriage is never quite right until the third comes to show a selfish pair what their fathers and mothers gave up for them."

"I thought two people were so much happier alone." Esmé stared into the glowing, companionless fire, with no crackle of coal or hiss of wood, but the modern maid objects to blacking grates.

"Well, sweetheart, some day you'll know better," he said, "perhaps." The maid brought in the evening paper, laying it on the table.

"Esmé!" Bertie Carteret jumped up. "Young De Vinci is dead—dead of pneumonia."

Death of the Earl of De Vinci on the eve of his marriage. Then Esmé caught the paper. "Is Uncle Hugh next heir—didn't you tell me so?"

"Uncle Hugh is Lord De Vinci, and if he does not marry again, a remote contingency, I'm the next heir. A son, Esmé, is a necessity now."

Esmé put the paper down. Her son, heir to a title, was at Sir Cyril Blakeney's house and she could not claim him.

"Bertie"—she walked restlessly about the room—"I heard such a strange story the other day, a woman who did something hideously dreadful and—was afraid to tell."

"Deceit is the one thing I could never forgive," said Carteret, firmly. "I'd put a woman away, even if it broke my heart, if I found out that she had done anything mean or had deceived me."

Esmé grew white, for hers was a plot which no man could forgive. She had sold her son for a paltry allowance, for the right to amuse herself in peace.

"I wonder if old Uncle Hugh will do anything for us now," she said in a strained, bitter voice.