"Isn't he very white, Mrs Stanson—peaky?"
"He should be in the country," Mrs Stanson said. "Down where his windows'd let in air at night and not the smuts from the chimneys. But her ladyship—she thinks different; she hates the country. I saw little Lord Helmington go in a hot summer because they wouldn't open Helmington Hall to send him down there with me."
"But he—Cyrrie—he won't go?" Esmé caught at the small soft fingers, moist with heat. A sudden fear gripped her heart.
"Was Denise going to kill the boy? Of course she did not care."
"Take care of him, Mrs Stanson. Oh! take care of him. I was there when he was born, you know. I used to act nurse for him. Aren't there those ozone things you hang up in bedrooms? Or, can't you get him away?"
Esmé hung over the baby, jealous of his little life, panting, afraid.
Mrs Stanson had taken several gold pieces from the child's visitor. She shrugged her plump shoulders.
"Her ladyship doesn't care for children, Mrs Carteret, and that's the truth. She says I fuss, talk nonsense. He don't even get a drive every day, and Sir Cyril, he comes in, but he's her ladyship's husband. Hssh! baby, hssh!"
For little Cyril began to cry querulously, wrinkling his peaky face.
Esmé bent over him, crooning to him, her motherhood awake. Now she knew her madness. For this was hers, and she would have sent him away to breathe fresh air and grow into a big, strong man like Bertie.