"The ... Duchess of Boredom. Thank you ... thank you!"
A great wave of relief swept over Esmé. Her boy would not die. Then, later, fresh waves of depression. He was not out of danger. Children went out in a minute. The hours dragged and she was afraid to ask again. Then, still sitting there, hunched in a cold room, she rang up.
Denise's voice answered. "Who? Oh, it's you, Esmé. I'll shut the door. Now don't get hysterical, don't! The boy's doing well. He was naughty; it was his fault."
"You pushed him," stormed Esmé.
"Who told you?" Denise stopped, her voice grew ill-humoured. "No, you must not come here. I'll let you know. Oh, I promise I will. Don't be absurd."
Esmé sat on, taking no count of passing hours.
"But, oh, my poor Madame," wailed Marie, as she came in, "perished and alone."
Marie, of course, had made up her mind to an intrigue. Madame had not gone for nothing. Marie was disappointed. But she lighted the fire, sympathized, sent for hot tea and toast, flitted about with a world of surmise hidden behind her black eyes.
What was it? What trouble was Madame in? Knowledge was useful to clever people.
The telephone bell whirred; before Esmé could come Marie had snatched up the receiver.