The children, busy with pails, were gathering shells and stones, looking with delight at the gay colours of the pebbles as they picked them up, wet and glistening, to fade into dull-hued things of red and brown and grey. Esmé waited with them; helped Cyril to find yellow shells and brilliant bits of polished brick and pebble. He looked pale, wistful. It was in her mind to shriek out her secret aloud--to pick the child up and cry out that he was hers and she would keep him. How she had dreaded his coming; how gladly she had arranged the plot with Denise. And now she knew that her heart was no harder than other women's; that nature was stronger than her love of indolence and pleasure. If she had been honest and patient Bertie would be heir now to several thousands a year, and this child, her son, to a title. He was hers and she had cheated him, given him to a loveless life, sent him into unhappiness. Who would have dreamt of Denise having a child, of the bitter jealousy of this false son. "And we dare not," whispered Esmé to the pebbles, "we dare not tell." Cyril was settling his pebbles in rings and loops, making quaint patterns of them, on a strip of dry sand. "Funny thing." Bertie Carteret strolled across to his wife. "I was always at that when I was a kiddie. Let me help, Cyril. I used to love making patterns." "Did you?" said Cyril, solemnly. "I does." Esmé saw the faces together. There was a likeness, faint, but yet plainly visible. The same level eyebrows, finely-cut nose, and eyes with their power to suffer. "Playing?" Sir Cyril joined them, the children's faces lighting up, for they loved the big man. "We'll all play. Let's dig a castle. Cyrrie"--his arm closed round the elder boy--"mummie says you were naughty to-day--pushed Cecil." "Mummie made a miftook," said Cyril equably. "Mummies never make miftooks," Sir Cyril answered gravely. "Never. Cyril must be a better boy and not bully the baby. I don't want to punish you, Cyril." "It doesn't last long, dad--if she'd like you to." The boy's eyes, with an old look in them, met Sir Cyril's. "I don't mind, dad--it's soon over." Esmé's fingers closed on a handful of pebbles, so closely that when she let the wet stones fall her hands were marked and bruised. The boy was telling them calmly that he was used to punishment. Her boy! Sir Cyril grunted to himself. His wife adored delicate Cecil; had never cared for the elder boy. It puzzled the big man, vexed him, so that he made a pet of Cyril, loving him as the child whose coming had made such a change in his own life; the strong, big boy who was a credit to the name.