"I fear it is unlikely, Madame. I am very sorry." Dr Legrand put his capable finger-tips together, looked sympathetically at the tall, golden-haired Englishwoman who had come to consult him. "The child died, then, Madame--that another is so important?" he asked kindly. Esmé flushed scarlet. "It--yes--I lost it," she said bitterly, her eyes filling with tears. "I lost him. And I am not likely to have another?" "Frankly, no, Madame. But you are young. Madame is nervous, says she cannot sleep without something. Give the something up, Madame; there is a little death, a little madness, bottled in each innocent dose. Go to the country, live in the open air. Get Madame's nerves well, then perhaps your wish may be realized." Esmé sat silent, growing sullen, raging at fate. Why should this be? Why had she been treated so cruelly? If--oh, if! The word which makes our sorrow into madness--that word "if." If she had known, had guessed, what the future would bring. As she sat there fuming it did not come to her that the great scales of the world weigh and adjust; that for sinning we are punished, either by the bitterness of our own remorse, or by something withheld. Right holds its steady poundage, while wrong flies upwards, light of weight and false. A mother had sold her child, carelessly, heartlessly, that she might enjoy her life. What did it matter? Children were easy things to find if one wanted them. And now she sat baffled, miserable, the price no use to her, spent before it came, yet did not blame herself, but cruel chance. "Well"--Esmé got up slowly, putting the great man's fee on the table--"bon jour, Monsieur." "Adieu, Madame." He took the dry hand kindly. "It was no doubt the loss of the boy which has made Madame nervous, not well. It has preyed on your mind, Madame." "It has," she rasped out bitterly, "and always will. Well, adieu, Monsieur." Dr Legrand wrote an entry in his book: "Mrs Eva Smith of West Kensington, London." "And yet," he said to himself, "she looked more angry than sorrowful." Pulling down her thick veils, Esmé followed the man-servant across the hall. She had dressed very plainly, hidden her face by thick black gauze and net. A little dark man was coming on to the steps, whistling cheerily. Seeing him Esmé started and jumped into her waiting taxi. The little man passed her, went into the doctor's, as one who had an appointment. For a moment he, too, had hurried, but the taxi had sped past him. "A cher Nonno," he cried, gripping the Frenchman's hand. "A la bonne heure, Luigi." "So Milady Blakeney comes to consult you," Luigi said. "She passed me." "Milady Blakeney? No! A Meeses Smith, of Londres, a handsome creature, but artificial, racked by late hours and chloral." "It was so like Milady," Luigi said. The doctor's consulting hour was over; the two were at leisure. "I attended her. A fine boy."