"Denise!" his hands were on hers. He held them hard. "Denise, I got a paper at Marseilles. My poor child, out away there in Italy. Were you ill? It was two months too soon."
With a little sob Denise held to the big strong hands, knew then what she had so nearly lost; this man's protection, his name; his kind eyes looked into hers.
The past was past; she knew that. Some women make resolutions and keep them. Denise did then. For the future, the future she had made by fraud, Sir Cyril Blakeney's wife should be above suspicion.
"Oh, Denny, why didn't you tell me—keep me here?"
"I was afraid," she faltered. "You were cross then. And I was not sure."
"I was cross then." He took her away to a quiet corner. "That's over, my wife. And the boy? Come up to see him. Our boy! He's not delicate, I hope?"
"Oh, not yet—he'll be asleep now." Denise was gay, radiant, her colour bright. "I'm hungry, Cyrrie. Let's have dinner now—and talk—talk!"
"Talk," he laughed. "Why didn't you wire for Sir Herman to go out? Were you bad? I never saw you looking stronger."
"Oh, no, I was not bad. I'm very strong," she said, a little uneasily.
"And you came on so soon. There's nothing wrong with him, is there? Oh, Denise, tell me."