"Her ladyship in? Yes? A message from Lord Hugh Landseer; wished Sir Cyril to lunch there to-morrow to discuss guns, etc. Yes. Dinner at eight or half-past? At eight-fifteen? The champagne? Better have two sorts out, Lady St Clare didn't like Bollinger." There was a cool reserve of strength in Cyril Blakeney's trivial words; he thought slowly, spoke slowly, but seldom idly. He was a man who could wait. Wait for a day which he believed would be good, wait for a young dog which he thought might improve. "Give him a year--we'll see then." And if at the end of the time the setter was still hopeless, he was not seen again. Cyril Blakeney would not sell a dog to be beaten into submission--and the end was swift and painless. A vicious horse, a bad jumper, went the same way. People did not dispute his opinions; if they could not agree they listened to the arguments and wondered at their quiet shrewdness. Denise heard the heavy step go on; he did not come into her boudoir. She went up herself, fidgeting over her dresses, coming down at last in shimmering opal satin, a crown of pearls in her soft hair, pearls at her throat, and in the lace on her bodice one pear-shaped and pink. Stanley, her maid, had fastened it in, picking it out of several jewels. Denise looked at them and shivered again. Her diamonds were magnificent, but they were not hers; they were heirlooms of the Blakeneys; she thought of the old house in Yorkshire, big, heavy, solid as her husband himself; full of carved panels, of cold, stately rooms; a home which Cyril delighted in. She dreaded the keen moorland air, the loneliness of the country; but they spent the winter there hunting and shooting; and she knew how Cyril longed for a boy to come after him. "That will do, Stanley. What do you say?--That I told you to remind me of new dresses for Stranray Park. Yes. Anything will do for the mornings, and tea-gowns are forbidden; but I'll want six evening gowns. Oh! Cyrrie!" Catch of nervousness in her voice; she met her husband on the stairs; put out a hand and touched his arm. Quietly he lifted it, held it out, and laid it lightly where her wedding ring gleamed behind a blaze of diamonds. "Had a pleasant day?" he asked. Denise recounted it almost eagerly. The big man listened, held her hand still as they came to the drawing-room. "And you gave up Ranelagh--stayed talking to Esmé Carteret." She saw him smile finely. "Friends, Denise, to waste an afternoon. I was at Ranelagh and missed you. Dollie Maynard told me she left you just starting. I wondered where you were. Oh! here is Elsie." They were a merry little party of four, taking an evening off until it was time for one or two balls. Elsie St Clare, her husband, and a Baron de Reville. Denise was a charming hostess; she knew how to order a dinner; there was no hint of the fluttering wings of trouble as the four talked and laughed.