They saw it as they drove to the slow train, a wide shimmer of mystery, silver and grey and opal, frostily chill, wondrously limitless; the hoarse whisper of its waves booming through the still night.
"Esmé! Will Esmé mind?" Estelle asked as they steamed into London.
"She has gone to several balls; she will never know," he said a little bitterly.
He did not see Esmé again until next evening. The knowledge of this new thing in his life made him penitent, anxious to find again the charm of the golden hair, of the brilliantly-tinted skin. He came from a long interview with his uncle, whipping himself with a mental switch; determined to be so strong that his friendship with Estelle might continue as it was—reasoning out that he had been mad upon the cliffs, half asleep and dreaming.
He came in to find Esmé in one of her restless moods, reading over letters, peevishly crumpling bills, grumbling at poverty. He did not know that the memory of a pinched baby face was always before her eyes—that she feared for the life of the son she had sold.
"Why, Es," he said, and kissed her.
"Don't rumple my hair," she answered; "it's done for dinner."
"Worrying over bills?" he asked gently.
Esmé pulled away one letter which he had taken up. "I can pay them," she flashed peevishly. "Don't worry." Denise's allowance was due again—overdue—and Esmé did not like to write or telephone, and had not seen Lady Blakeney for a week.
It was due to her, and overdue to others. Claire's bill ran in for four pungent pages, and ran to three figures, which did not commence with a unit. There were jewels, the motor hire. Oh! of what use was five hundred pounds?