Sir Cyril was boyish as he sat dreaming. Big people have the power to put the past behind them, to see sunshine in the future.
*****
The brown-skinned Italian nurse looked regretfully at the morsel of humanity in her arms. A bonny, bright-eyed little thing, blinking at the world solemnly.
"I shall miss my bambino, signora," she said sadly.
Esmé talked haltingly; she bent over the boy, looking down at him; she was pale, a little worn and thin; some of the brilliance had left her eyes.
"Is he not a pride—a joy? Ah, signora. Old Beatrice has nursed many bambinos, but none such as this."
Esmé turned away impatiently. She looked out across the Italian landscape, fair even in winter.
It was January. There would be time to hunt still in England, to enjoy herself. To taste the reward of her scheme. But....
"None such as this." The mite cooed at nothing, smiling and stretching his hands.
"Esmé! I mean Denise!"