"Stanley would not let me rest in peace to-night," she said, "she reminded me of Stranray in October. Cyril will not be there; it will be worse than ever. No smoking there after dinner," laughed Denise, "and it all seems standing up and taking the weather's temperature with our tongues; we are so bored we talk of nothing else. And H.R.H. likes the Stranray babies down to breakfast. One of them upset an egg over her one day, on purpose; they are outwardly mild, and inwardly demons. And when we are not out we work, because it looks domestic. I put three stitches in last time, because I saw eyes upon me. I shall never forget the day we found the three babies playing when we came in. Jinnie, the eldest, gravely smoking paper cigarettes. Just as state entry was made, she shrieked out: "'That's when they're gone to bed; that's what we do. _I_ saw over the bannisters. Now you're so loud, Nettie; and you, Tim, you say thank goodness.' But H.R.H. was quite nice about it; and only laughed and kissed them all. "'I expect it's what you all do and say,' she said, and kissed Nettie again." "I shall disport myself at Swords," Elsie St Clare laughed. "I couldn't stand the strain of behaving perfectly for a week. Prince Wilhelm goes to you at White Friars some time, doesn't he?" "Next spring for the races," said Denise. "But she's a dear, and if you give her a chair to sleep in she bothers no one; the only thing which worries her is that Wilhelm will play the bridge game. "'It hass my orphanage ruined,' she told me last time." After dinner they played bridge. Denise forgot her fears a little, though her luck was against her; she could not hold a card. "How I hate paying you, Cyrrie," she said, laughing, as she took gold from her purse. "Women always hate the day of reckoning." Something in his quiet voice made her heart thump. "The game is full of excitement, but it must end--and your sex dislikes the ending." The guests went on to a big dance; the Blakeneys were left alone; they were not going out. Quite quietly Sir Cyril came across to his wife, stood looking at her. "A lovely gown," he said. "But--do you need new jewels, Denise?" His fingers, big, strong, deft, fell on the pink pearl, undid the fastening. Denise turned pale, stood stammering, seeking excuse. "Don't bother," he said smoothly. "I saw the boy give it you. You've been foolish there, Denise--foolish. Well, I'm off for months, and when I come back--" "Yes?" she said, dry-lipped, or rather tried to say yes and merely made some sound. "If we had had a child, Denise," he said, his head bent. "They make a difference--one makes allowances then." "If we had--now," she said. "Now, Cyrrie!" her voice rang shrilly. He laughed. "If we had--you might be thankful," he said. "Come, you look tired out. Go to bed." "I have not been feeling well," she faltered. If she was to be saved, something must be managed.