In her heart she knew she ought to tell Esmé not to be foolishly hysterical. Talk quietly and soothe her. Instead, with her eyes alight, she fed the flame of the fear of loss of fun. Talked of how a baby was a nuisance in London, of how much they cost. "If you could give me yours," she said, "and pretend that it was mine. Lord! what a difference it would make for me." Esmé sat staring at her, puzzled. "Oh! I suppose it's too melodramatic to think of," Denise said, getting up. "It's still pouring, and I'm going home. We have people to dinner to-night. Cheer up, dear." She left Esmé sitting brooding alone; she had been so happy with her husband; there was just enough--enough for amusement, for entertaining mildly, for paying visits. Her pretty face won many friends; people were kind to so pleasant a guest. "Oh! I can't afford it! I'd love to go!" and then someone found an outsider at ten to one, or a stock which was safe to rise, and someone else sent wine at wholesale prices; someone else fruit and flowers. They were such a merry pair; they ought to enjoy themselves, was the world's verdict. Esmé knew the value of smiles; in shops, in Society they were current coinage to her. She did not want to be tied, to have to weary over a something more important than she was. "If we could only change," said Esmé, dolefully. "Denise quite sees how it will spoil everything." "Call a taxi, Marie. I'll go to the club to tea." Denise went to pay some calls, and then to her house in Grosvenor Square. The scent of flowers drifted from the hall; she loved to fill it with anything sweet. The butler handed her her letters as she passed--invitations, notes. She went into her boudoir at the back of the drawing-room, a nest of blue, background for her fair beauty, with flowers everywhere. Denise shivered; she was a Someone--a well-known hostess in society; a personage in her way; she went to dull house-parties, where royalty was entertained; and she yawned sorely but yet was glad to go. Where one ate simple food and had to smoke in the conservatories, because a very great lady was an advocate for simplicity. "And if--if--" her fears were not unfounded. Denise knew what it would mean. A few loyal friends writing kindly letters before they slipped away from her. Cold, evasive nods from people who would not cut her; the delighted, uplifted noses of the people she had ignored. A hole-and-corner marriage somewhere with young Jerry, who was already wearying of his chains; a marriage reft of all things which makes marriage a joy. Life in some poky place abroad or in the country, received on sufferance or not at all. Denise flung out her hands as if to ward off an enemy. She heard her husband coming in; his heavy step on the stairs; his deep, even voice.