"Yes." The Frenchman appeared to be very interested in his finger-nails. "Yes--there were no complications, were there?" "H'm!" Luigi Frascatelle sighed. "She came through well. But--I did not tell her--there is never likely to be another bambino." He dropped into medical explanation, gave a few details. "Never," said Luigi. "But why tell her?" Legrand took up his book. "Mrs Eva Smith, of London," he said thoughtfully. "H'm! She was dark, this milady?" "Dark? No, but fair as the angels," exclaimed Luigi. "Golden-haired, splendid. Each year the Sposo, Sir Blakeney, sends me a gift from the boy. It is good of them to remember." "Oh!" The French doctor closed his book. "Then it can't be," he said to himself, "since the boy is alive. But"--he looked again at the entry--"from what you tell me a second child would be a practical impossibility," he said. "Well, it is so," answered the Italian. "And, in this case, also. Yet the boy is alive. Come, Luigi, out. I shall be in London next week at the great Conference, but I leave happily my patients to you, mon ami." Esmé, once again Mrs Carteret, lay sobbing on the high narrow bed in her room at the Meurice. She would never be rich now; her heartache never stilled. Wild schemes went drifting through her brain. Could she do as Denise had done? No, for Denise was rich, and to cheat one must have money. Half-maddened, she buried her hot face in the pillow; then would spring up with clenched hands, railing against the world. Her boy, her boy! who would have meant so much to her. Her baby, ill-used, neglected! There is no sorrow so bitter as that of a sin which has failed to succeed; no remorse so biting as that which eats with decayed teeth, which whispers as it grows painfully, "I come from your own fault." Esmé got up at last, powdered thickly and carelessly, put away her plain gown and got into a blue velvet, pinned on a huge hat, and went down to tea. She could think no longer. A bunch of pale mauve violets tempted her. With her fair hair, her done-up skin, her brilliant gown, men turned and stared and drew their own conclusions. Esmé wanted new gowns. Denise owed her money. She drove to her dressmaker's. But Madame Lilie was cool, unenthusiastic. Madame Carteret's accounts were over-difficult to get in. "If Madame would pay cash, but certainly. But otherwise money was scarce. English accounts so ver' difficult to get in. For cash there were one or two gowns." With deft hands Madame showed a model of emerald velvet, bizarre, remarkable, but exquisite in its supple grace. Another of sapphire cloth. An evening gown of chiffon and satin, clinging, opal-hued. The three could be supplied--they would fit Esmé easily--for one hundred and twenty pounds for cash, with jupons to match thrown in. Esmé was going to the Holbrooks. She must wear her old clothes; and Dollie Gresham would be there, and Denise.