"Wrong with him? No!" she said, laughing carelessly. "He's a great baby."
Denise was looking through a door of life which she had never tried to open, that of love and trust. She was too shallow to regret the use of the false key which she had forced it open with. She was safe; Cyril would never bring up the past to the boy's mother.
"Come then, and see a sleeping bundle of flannels," she said.
The boy had just gone to sleep. Sir Cyril's first view of him was with Esmé stooping over the cot, looking wistfully down at the tiny face.
"Mrs Carteret has quite a way with a child," said the nurse, graciously. "He's a splendid boy, Sir Cyril."
Sir Cyril had had shy ideas of a something whispered across the new hope in his life, of a promise for the future or regrets for the past. As it was, he could only stand almost awkwardly, afraid that a clumsy movement might wake the child.
"Great fellow, isn't he?" he said sheepishly.
"A splendid boy, Sir Cyril—really splendid; fair, sir, as you are; he has a curious mark, a regular small plum, on his shoulder."
Esmé started. Just on her shoulder she had a round, purple mark, shaped as a plum; she had never dreamt of the baby inheriting it.
A true Blakeney, big and strong, cleanly made, Sir Cyril stood by the cot, with the pride of this heir to his big in him.