"And I am in bad spirits." Esmé looked pinched, almost unhealthy. "Yes, tell her to come back, Denise—let's talk."
Speech is the safety valve of sorrow; a trouble which can be spoken of will not hurt gravely. It did Esmé good to fling out her fears—to tell of what might—what would be.
"It will upset everything," she moaned. "Scotland—the winter hunting—and then the expense afterwards. We were just right together, Bertie and I."
Denise listened to the outburst, almost astonished, scarcely comprehending; half wistfully—she had no child; they would not have worried her. Her empty life might have been so different if they had come to her.
"And Bertie," she said, "he hates it, as you do?"
"He would, of course. He doesn't know. He would fuss and sentimentalize. Oh! Denise!" Esmé began to cry hysterically. "It will spoil everything. Something will have to be given up."
Denise looked at her thoughtfully. This sheer selfishness was beyond her comprehension.
"Perhaps when I was thirty," sobbed Esmé, "or thirty-five, and didn't want to fly about."
"And then"—Denise Blakeney lighted another cigarette—"then, my Esmé, you might pray for the child you want—in vain."
She got up, her weak mouth set slackly, her blue eyes shining.