Then fear tore at her heart. What if the child should die. "Be good to him," she whispered, slipping a sovereign into Mrs Stanson's hand. "Be good to him, Mrs Stanson."
She got down before Denise did. Felt the want of warmth in her hostess's greeting. Denise was splendidly gowned, gay, merry, looking younger, happier. Sir Cyril's eyes followed his wife, contentment visible in their look.
"My dear Esmé, delighted, of course. When you are alone always come here. We've only a four for bridge—Susie and her husband. You can cut in."
"I'll look on." Esmé felt that she was not wanted, she was odd man out. She flushed unhappily.
Denise was full of plans, each one including Cyril now. She talked lightly of that boy Jerry. She was completely the happy wife, confident in her position.
"And the boy. He's had a cold," Esmé said.
"A cold has he? I think I heard him sniff?"
"Yes, he's had a cold," Sir Cyril said. "He was quite feverish. Denise is not a nursery bird, I fear."
"And you've been dining off gold plate at the Holbrooks, Esmé. I wouldn't go. Cyril and I went for a few last days with the Quorn. Cyril bought me such a lovely mare, all quality. Ah, here is Sue." Lady Susan Almorni was not a friend of Esmé's. Denise seemed to be leaving her smart friends, to be settling among the duller, greater people.
"Bertie will be home to-morrow. I want to leave the flat, to come more west. It's poky, horribly stuffy. If—we could afford to." Esmé crumbled her toast, looked almost sullenly at Denise.