The glassful of amber syrup fell on the table, the glass splinters dulled by the oily liquid.
"Oh, some day," said Denise, trembling. "How stupid of me! But it was a dull spot, Cyrrie. It was only fancy, nerves, which took me there. Wasn't it dull, Den"—she stopped—"Esmé?"
"I never hated any place so much in my life," said Esmé, dully.
That night she crept along the corridor, stood listening at a door.
Primitive instinct was stronger than the power of money. Her boy lay sleeping in that quiet room.
"Oh, Esmé!"—Denise called her into her room next day—"Esmé! Come here! You can go, Summers."
Her new maid, sent from England with the nurse, went quietly out.
"Esmé!" Denise lowered her voice. "About that money. I owe you some now. I can't write cheques, you see, every half-year; but this time I can explain." She threw a slip of paper across to Esmé.
"Thank you. And the boy?" said Esmé.
"Oh! he's all right. I saw Mrs Stanson. He slept well. Don't mess about him, Esmé! It would only look silly—better not. Will you meet us at the Ritz for déjeuner?"