It was the letter. Cyril had caught sight of some of it, been furious; Esmé must keep away. It was the only plan. "And never come near the boy, never," wailed Denise, "never. After all, you never wanted him. You mustn't come to the Square. Cyril would suspect."
A passion of anger rent Esmé. Not to see the little son she had sold. Not to spend the half-hours which sent her away yearning and wistful. Not to bring sweets to the unloved child; to try to be his friend.
"Then, if you're not good to him," she stormed out, "by Heaven, Denise! I'll have him back. And for money, I must have my payment, but the boy comes first. Be good to him."
A sneer from Lady Blakeney. It was a little late to prate of mother-love, to assume virtue. Esmé had hated the idea of the baby coming. It was rubbish to suppose that anyone so hard-hearted could want to bother now. "I wouldn't have sold my child," sneered Denise. "No real woman would. Let cant alone, Es."
A pretty quarrel between two well-bred women who, with primitive instinct itching their fingernails, flashed out sharp truth and sharper innuendo.
A couple of women passing in saw the two.
"Hullo! I think that Esmé and Denise are disagreeing." Lady Mary Ploddy peered down the corridor. "They're flaming at each other. Look, Sukey."
Lady Sukey, her sister, looked; she even listened. "Quite interestin'," she drawled languidly. "Quite!"
When Esmé, flushed and furious, had gone out of the club, she flung back a last threat which left Denise raw with fear and anger, so irritated that her words were not quite under her control. She forgot caution, only wanted to hurt.
"Denise, you've been fighting with your Esmé," said Mary Ploddy.