Denise pushed a letter away.
She was pretty and fresh in her lace cap, her rose-pink wrapper.
"Oh, nothing!" she answered. "It's time to get up, isn't it?"
"To-morrow," he said, "it will be time an hour earlier."
"Shooting mornings are so long," yawned Denise.
"But what, or who, worried you, Den? Why did you exclaim?"
An insistent man, he held out his hand for the letter.
"Oh! nothing, Cyrrie. No, you mustn't see it. It's only from Esmé, grumbling. I couldn't show it to you. There are things about herself—her health." Denise talked very fast, growing a little breathless. "And she wants a little loan—and I'm short. She was so good to me that time abroad, you know—she—"
"She's rankly extravagant," said Cyril, equably. The silken quilt had slipped on one side; he saw the figures £200 written plainly. Sir Cyril sat thinking, frowning as he thought. He gave Denise a huge allowance to do as she chose with; but twice in the last year she had asked him for more.
"She's rankly extravagant," he went on, "and she must not worry you, my dear. I'll send her five-and-twenty."