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."