"Cyril, you rough little wretch!" Lady Blakeney leant forward, slapping the boy harshly. "You little bully!"
"I"—Cyril touched the white place which stung on his soft cheek, the white which turned to dull red. "I—" His mouth quivered, but he said nothing, merely looked out at the heaving sea.
The pathos in his child's eyes might have touched anyone but a mother jealous of another woman's child, storming behind a rage which must be hidden.
Esmé Carteret's baby must oust Denise's son from his kingdom.
"Ah, Denise! How can you?" A pained cry, another woman springing forward, catching the slapped baby to her. "Denise! How can you!"
"Why not, Esmé? He's a born bully. Bad-tempered, always hurting Cecil. A great strong tyrant."
The women's eyes met with anger and dislike flashing in both glances.
It was not altogether chance which had brought Esmé to Bournemouth. She hunted health now, strove for what once had been hers to trifle with—hunted health and peace, and found neither.
Denise's payments were desultory; she had to show outward civility to Esmé to make up for the half-yearly hush-money. Sir Cyril had houses at Bournemouth; she had offered one to the Carterets for nothing.
"Poor Esmé, Cyril. I told her she might have the little lodge. She's looking wretched."