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.