Cyril was settling his pebbles in rings and loops, making quaint patterns of them, on a strip of dry sand.
"Funny thing." Bertie Carteret strolled across to his wife. "I was always at that when I was a kiddie. Let me help, Cyril. I used to love making patterns."
"Did you?" said Cyril, solemnly. "I does."
Esmé saw the faces together. There was a likeness, faint, but yet plainly visible. The same level eyebrows, finely-cut nose, and eyes with their power to suffer.
"Playing?" Sir Cyril joined them, the children's faces lighting up, for they loved the big man. "We'll all play. Let's dig a castle. Cyrrie"—his arm closed round the elder boy—"mummie says you were naughty to-day—pushed Cecil."
"Mummie made a miftook," said Cyril equably.
"Mummies never make miftooks," Sir Cyril answered gravely. "Never. Cyril must be a better boy and not bully the baby. I don't want to punish you, Cyril."
"It doesn't last long, dad—if she'd like you to." The boy's eyes, with an old look in them, met Sir Cyril's. "I don't mind, dad—it's soon over."
Esmé's fingers closed on a handful of pebbles, so closely that when she let the wet stones fall her hands were marked and bruised.
The boy was telling them calmly that he was used to punishment. Her boy!