The nurse looked puzzled. She had seen Lady Blakeney once in London, but she blinked now, afraid her memory had played her false.
"Excuse me," she began, "I understood that this was her ladyship." She looked at Denise.
"I am Lady Blakeney," said Denise, angrily. "Oh! two taxis, please. I am tired of crying babies. Take him in one."
Mrs Stanson looked grave.
Esmé's eyes followed the tall woman who carried a little bundle down the platform. A sudden fierce ache of regret came to her—regret and anger. This little, white-limbed thing was hers. She would not have sent it off alone.
"Her ladyship," said Mrs Stanson, later, as she put her charge to sleep, "does not seem to care for children, ma'am."
"Some people do not." Esmé looked at the sleeping face. "He is happier now that you have him, nurse."
Downstairs the God of Chance was working wonders.
Denise, coming into the hall of the Bristol, cried out in astonishment.
A big man was registering at the bureau. Her name was written before his. He swung round with a cry as he looked at it.