The references to the baby, the laughing congratulations of the guests, jarred on his nerves. He refrained from any mention of the child. And at dinner, when Georgina’s health was drunk in champagne, he alone ignored the toast. For the life of him, he could not have joined in the farce of the general rejoicing. Later, in the drawing-room, Esmé sat down beside him and rallied him on his preoccupation.
“You are bored, Jim,” she said. “I believe you are longing to be home and in bed.”
“No. But I’ve got the toothache,” he lied.
“Poor old dear! I’m sorry. Come upstairs and have a peep at the babe asleep. She looks such a duck in her cot.”
He followed her from the room and upstairs to the nursery. There was a nurse in charge, but she withdrew when they entered, to Jim Bainbridge’s infinite relief. Esmé pulled aside the mosquito net and bent over the cot. Her eyes, the man observed, were soft with mother-love as she leaned down towards the sleeping child. He did not look at the child; he was intent upon her.
“Isn’t she sweet?” she said, and glanced up at him, smiling.
His own face was grave, even stern in expression. He was watching her attentively, wondering about her, wondering how the news of Paul’s return would affect her when she knew.
“I believe you care more for that kid than you do for—any one,” he said gruffly. “If you could go back... If it were possible, say, to begin again—with Paul... Would you be willing to give up the kid—for him?”
Abruptly she straightened herself and stood beside the cot, holding the mosquito net in her hand, and looking at him fixedly with an air of troubled surprise.
“Jim,” she said, and her face saddened, “what put it into your mind to ask me that question? One can never go back. I wish you hadn’t said that—to-night. What brought that idea into your mind?”