"She's rankly extravagant," said Cyril, equably. The silken quilt had slipped on one side; he saw the figures £200 written plainly. Sir Cyril sat thinking, frowning as he thought. He gave Denise a huge allowance to do as she chose with; but twice in the last year she had asked him for more. "She's rankly extravagant," he went on, "and she must not worry you, my dear. I'll send her five-and-twenty." "No, Cyril, not you--it would be a breach of confidence." "There can be no breaches of confidence between a wife and her husband." His eyes hardened, his big jaw stuck out. "No secrets, Den. I tell you that, and I mean it. If she has asked you before I should have known. I expect to know again." Stooping, he kissed her lightly, but she knew the meaning in his voice, knew and dreaded him. The folly of her petty sinning had been crossed out, but since then she was his, and he would stand no deceiving. "You fool! to write to me," almost whimpered Denise. Esmé had written excitedly. She had raved on at Bertie, stormed, cried, grown calm, and then angry. Money must be found now--must! Two hundred was not enough. Denise must send three, advance the money for January; she must give at least two hundred to the rapacious Claire. So her letter was a flurried one, lacking caution. "I must, Denise," she wrote--"I _must_ have money. I could have it of my own if I--if I--upset everything. You know what I mean. So don't refuse me, old girl, for old sake's sake. Send me something to sell if you can't manage coin. I'm really in a corner. Bertie's grumbling, Claire pressing. You know what Hugh has said--that if I had a child he'd leave us money, and so--" then a long blank. "She is mad," whispered Denise, now white to the lips, shaking from sick fear. "If she told, if it came out. I'd deny it all! She dare not; but--if she did!" She sat up, shivering, and Sir Cyril, looking in, saw her. "That Carteret girl is worrying Den," he said to himself. "And I haven't got it," muttered Denise. "I don't think so, and I daren't send off jewels, for that tiresome Studley counts them all, and nothing wants mending." She must slip into the town, get money and send it off. Cyrrie had been looking over her accounts lately; she had had to draw out money in small sums, and send them on. Denise was frightened. She was going down when she saw the tell-tale letter lying on her bed. She ran back, tore it up, burnt it in her fire; came to breakfast shaken and looking ill. Cyril was making his own tea; Denise took coffee; the boys, in their high chairs, were solemnly eating bread and milk, eating fast that they might reach the stage of scrambled eggs, and later, honey or jam. "Oh, Cyril, how you mess!" Cyril had dropped his spoon. "You shan't have any jam now, or egg--only bread and butter." "You're hard on him, Den. Any fellow can drop a spoon." "He can also learn to hold it. Now don't cry, Cyril." "I never does," said Cyril, quietly. "Never, mumsie."