"Yes?" she said, dry-lipped, or rather tried to say yes and merely made some sound.
"If we had had a child, Denise," he said, his head bent. "They make a difference—one makes allowances then."
"If we had—now," she said. "Now, Cyrrie!" her voice rang shrilly.
He laughed. "If we had—you might be thankful," he said. "Come, you look tired out. Go to bed."
"I have not been feeling well," she faltered.
If she was to be saved, something must be managed.
Esmé was still in her wrapper of silk and lace, when Lady Blakeney came to her next day. Came, white and excited, her eyes blazing, her face tense. For half an hour Esmé sat almost silent, listening to an outpouring of plot and plan. The weak, flighty woman developed undreamt-of powers of organization.
Esmé wanted money, freedom. Oh! it had often been done before. She flung out its simplicity. Away in some remote part of the Continent the child which was to come should be born as a Blakeney.
What was easier than a change of names?
"See, Esmé—I'll give you a thousand a year always. Honour! Think of it! Five hundred pounds every six months, and you and Bertie can be happy when he comes back. And I—it will save me. We'll go away together in the autumn; we are always together. We'll go without maids. Oh—do—do!"