"Then, if you're not good to him," she stormed out, "by Heaven, Denise! I'll have him back. And for money, I must have my payment, but the boy comes first. Be good to him." A sneer from Lady Blakeney. It was a little late to prate of mother-love, to assume virtue. Esmé had hated the idea of the baby coming. It was rubbish to suppose that anyone so hard-hearted could want to bother now. "I wouldn't have sold my child," sneered Denise. "No real woman would. Let cant alone, Es." A pretty quarrel between two well-bred women who, with primitive instinct itching their fingernails, flashed out sharp truth and sharper innuendo. A couple of women passing in saw the two. "Hullo! I think that Esmé and Denise are disagreeing." Lady Mary Ploddy peered down the corridor. "They're flaming at each other. Look, Sukey." Lady Sukey, her sister, looked; she even listened. "Quite interestin'," she drawled languidly. "Quite!" When Esmé, flushed and furious, had gone out of the club, she flung back a last threat which left Denise raw with fear and anger, so irritated that her words were not quite under her control. She forgot caution, only wanted to hurt. "Denise, you've been fighting with your Esmé," said Mary Ploddy. "I was telling her I could not go on being friends and she resented it," said Denise, unsteadily. "Couldn't? Why?" It was ill-fortune for Esmé that Denise should meet two women who loved a scandal dearly. "Oh, never mind why. Cyril has forbidden me to. It's something I could not tell; nothing to do with morals." "Money then?" Lady Mary's eyes were glowing with curiosity. "Only money and morals nowadays in the sin catalogue." "Oh, never mind--she's impossible," snapped Denise, and, flustered, shaken, went out. "It's something bad. Scratch the Carteret woman's name off the list of your Bridge Tournament, Sukey. I'll drop a hint to the Rollestones, too, for their dinner and dance." So a whisper grew. Esmé, going to a big reception that night, caught one or two frigid bows from women who had smiled the day before. The rooms were crowded, full of notabilities. The reception was in honour of a French diplomatist and his wife; the tripping tongue was as much used in the rooms as English. "There is one lady whom I wish to see." Dr Legrand looked at the brilliant crowd. "Milady Blakeney." "So, Monsieur. She is close to us--passing downstairs. There--in grey-blue--with the diamond stars." "But, non, that is a dark lady." The doctor stared, puzzled. "My nephew attended milady in Italy; but she is fair." "No, Monsieur; she was always dark. He's muddled her with Esmé Carteret, who was with her. She is brilliantly fair. She might--yes--there she is, just going out." Legrand turned, caught a fleeting glimpse of Esmé, started. "Meeses Carteret," he half whispered. "But surely, it is so like the Mrs Smith of London. I seem to know this Mrs Carteret," he said aloud. "She is a pretty woman. Oh!"