"No, mumsie, Cyril didn't. He not sorry, 'cos he didn't."
Esmé turned and swam back. She could not die. She would have a son of her own to still the longing for the sad-eyed boy she had sold.
"See, Estelle—strike out! Don't be afraid. Let Bertie go."
"But I am afraid, horribly. And I like one toe on the sand," said Estelle, placidly. "I swim all short, somehow."
"It's because you are afraid." No one was looking at her; Esmé's interest in the swimming died out suddenly; she grew bored again, fretful.
She went in, the bathing dress clinging to her, showing how thin she was growing.
"You had better go in too, Estelle. You've been out for an hour. No, you'll never swim the Channel."
Half nervously Bertie sent the girl away, tried to forget the thrill of contact as he held up the firm little chin, as he touched her soft round limbs in the water.
The girl was so completely fresh and virginal, with a new beauty growing in her face and sweet grey eyes. She was lithe, active; he watched her run to catch his wife, to walk in beside her.
Esmé was quite young, but she walked stiffly; she was growing angular.