"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.