Sir Cyril grunted to himself. His wife adored delicate Cecil; had never cared for the elder boy. It puzzled the big man, vexed him, so that he made a pet of Cyril, loving him as the child whose coming had made such a change in his own life; the strong, big boy who was a credit to the name.
Foolish young people hunted for shrimps until they were weary; then, looking at the advancing sea, they whispered how dreadful it would be to drown, and listened, flushing, as proud young manhood assured them that to swim to shore with such a burden would be a joy. The crawling baby waves, inch deep in their advancing ripples, heard and laughed. To prove devotion young manhood would have welcomed white-crested rollers, swift currents running fiercely between them and the land.
Bertie had wandered far out, Estelle Reynolds with him.
They talked of books and plays, but always ending with the same subject, the lives of two human beings called Albert and Estelle.
"If one only could live down at Cliff End," he said. "I wanted to go there now, but Esmé would come here. Oh, how tired I am of asphalte and 'buses, and the comforts of clubs. I hunted five days last winter, Estelle."
"But you shot a lot," she said.
"At huge house-parties, with a two-hours' luncheon to be eaten in the middle of the day, and bridge to be played when one is dead sleepy after dinner. I have an old-fashioned liking for scrambling over rough ground with a setter and a spaniel, and bringing home a few snipe and a pheasant or a couple of duck. They give me more joy than my pile of half-tame pheasants, reared for slaughter, or my partridge or grouse. My friends wouldn't come to my shoots, Estelle. And—Esmé's friends"—he shrugged his shoulders—"they are too smart for me. She's straight herself as Euclid's line, but—one hears and sees—Dollie Gresham, for instance."
"Well?" said Estelle.
"She is a very clever bridge player," he said drily. "Oh, I say nothing, but I've watched the people she picks out to play with. Aspiring idiots who think high stakes give them a reputation as fine players. There's Gore Helmsley, too—the black-eyed Adonis. I meet him everywhere, and my desire to kick him flourishes unappeased. There are queer stories afloat about the man. There was Sybil Knox; she won't speak to him now, almost cut him at the Holbrooks last Christmas. He's running after Lady Gracie de Lyle now, a little, dolly-faced baby who goggles into his black eyes and thinks him magnificent."
"Oh, Bertie! Goggles!" said Estelle.