"I'm afraid I'm horribly sorry for her; she looks wretched." The big man got up. "Debt's the devil, Maria."
"The reminders generally go to a hot place," said his wife, absently. "Think it over, Luke. Help me."
"I must, my love," said Luke, meekly.
And then chance cut the difficulty in two. Esmé, picking up the Morning Post, saw another paragraph.
"Sir Cyril Blakeney's son and heir was to-day run over by a taxi-cab. Lady Blakeney was with her two children, returning to her house, when the eldest boy stepped off the footpath and was caught by the wheel of a passing cab. Faint hopes are entertained of his recovery."
The paper slipped from Esmé's hands; she grew numb and cold.
"She pushed him," she whispered to herself. "She was angry and pushed him."
Her boy! Her baby! She knew now what she had sold and lost. Panting out his tiny life, dying!
Esmé got up slowly, came numb and white to her hostess.
She had had bad news; she lied dully, carelessly; a cousin was ill; she must leave at once. But if they liked to keep Bertie she was sure he would stay.