Esmé hung up the receiver with a sigh. The great scheme was becoming greater, looming before her. But money and liberty and an allowance made it all feasible.
A week later Bertie Carteret sailed for South Africa, and on the same day a broad, quiet man left London for a year's shooting. Both thought of their wives as the big steamers began to churn up the water. But one with wistful longing, looking back at a figure on the quay which waved and waved until it was lost, a blur among other figures; and one whose mouth set grimly as he recalled a good-bye in a luxurious dining-room, arms which he had put away from his neck, and an unsteady voice which had hinted of some confession which he would not hear.
"Later," said Cyril Blakeney, "later." But his eyes were full of bitter hatred for the thing which, for his name's sake, he meant to do.
Some hours after the steamer had left port Marie Leroy was rung up on the telephone.
She stood listening, a curious expression on her dark face, her lips murmuring, "Oui, madame. Oui, certainement, madame."
Esmé was dismissing her, was going away with Lady Blakeney, wanted no maid. Marie was to receive extra wages, a superfine character; to pack Madame's things.
Marie walked away, her slim brown fingers pressed together.
"And—what means it?" said the Frenchwoman, softly. "That would I like to know. What means it?"