It was a weary journey back. When thoughts would come crowding in bitter array. If there was never to be a child, then they would never be rich. Only a week before Bertie had told her plainly that they could not go on spending so much. Here again Esmé blamed someone else. If Denise would only pay her regularly, it was all Denise's fault. There was two hundred owing now, since June. The thousand pounds vanished so easily. Dresses, bridge, furs, so many things that Esmé wanted, could not do without. If Bertie knew that besides what he knew to be spent she was using this other money, too. If Denise would only pay up her debts for her, let her start fair again! Esmé looked sullenly at the calm sea. If not she would threaten to take the boy--she would take him. He would forget it all in time. Then, with a shiver, she thought of the telling, of the scandals, of tongues wagging, of the proving and altering, and, she was not pitiless, of Denise Blakeney's complete undoing. Denise was still in Scotland. Rashly, pressed by her desire for the dresses, Esmé made up her mind to write. Bertie met his wife at Charing Cross. With her irritable mood making her observant, Esmé noticed that his light overcoat was shabby, that he lacked smartness. "Oh! Bertie!" She kissed him, eagerly glad to see him, always hoping to find comfort in his love. Then the barrier which her secret made rose, drearily, between them. They had so little to talk about now, so little in common. "That coat's shabby, Bert. You must get a new one," she said impatiently. "Not just now," he answered; "it's all right." "It's not right." Esmé felt that he was hitting at her extravagances. "You shall get one. I'll buy it for you, Bert." "Millionaire," he mocked. "Have you got some secret fount of money, Es? You never have enough to buy your own things, child. And--the doctor, Es--Legrand?" "Says I'm to drink milk and eat turnips and pray," she said bitterly, "and live in the country, and sleep on ozone, and so forth." "And--if you would?" His voice grew eager. "Oh! Esmé, if you would--just you and I together again." The tenderness in his voice was forced there, stilling thoughts which would not sleep; he assured himself that with a fresh start, without perpetual extravagance and excitement, he would feel the old passion for his wife wake in him. Fresh air and exercise would banish the memory of the companion whose presence he longed for so much now. "Come to Cliff End, Butterfly. Try it as a cure, with me as chief physician." London, huge and splendid, flitted by them as the taxi rushed to the flats; the streets called to Esmé; the restaurants were lighted up, glowing golden behind their portals. She thought of the whimper of the wind, the thunder of the surf against the rocks; the dreariness of the country. "I couldn't," she said at last; "the man doesn't understand. Town's my life, Bertie; all my pals are here. No, I couldn't."