"Lord! It--must be nonsense, Butterfly," he said kindly, with something telling him that it was not. They had got wind, he thought, of Esmé's extravagance, and then he shook his head. What were debts to women who thought it smart to evade them, who paid exorbitant bills because they had been running too long to check them, who all wanted a little more than they had got? "It must be nonsense," he said gruffly. "Scandal wouldn't offend them, even if you'd ever gone in for it. Want of money is nothing. Perhaps you've won a bit too much off 'em at bridge, or attracted someone's private man-property." "I haven't," she said irritably. "Well, good-night." Luke Holbrook, big and good-natured, paddled across his palm-court next day to the stiff room where he knew he would find his wife writing letters. "Seem to have made another mess of it, my love," he said mildly. "Went to Sukey Ploddy now about what you told me, and she swears it's true. Telephoned to Benhusan. He wouldn't commit himself. Very awkward, my love, having the woman here." "Too awful," said Mrs Holbrook. "To have stolen a friend's diamonds! That's it, isn't it? Gracious!" said Mrs Holbrook, weakly. "And Daisy Ardeane coming to-day." "Bad as the dancer, my love." Luke Holbrook stroked his fat chin. "Bad as the dancer. See the _Morning Post_, my love?" He picked it up. "'A marriage has been arranged and will take place immediately between the Marquis of Boredom and Miss Maisie Moover, of Magnificent fame.'" "The Duchess, my love, is having hysterics at the Hyde Park Hotel. Ploddy informs me that his cousin Trentwell is attending. She cut me dead last week in the Park, my love; and all because we wished to amuse a Cabinet minister." "That affair," said his wife, "may alter the Boredoms' missing chins. But this is important. I can't have Esmé Carteret here." Mr Holbrook remarked that actions for libel were unpleasant, and that Carteret was an excellent fellow; then he sighed. "The woman has been living at a ridiculous pace," snorted Mrs Holbrook. "French frocks, furs, out everywhere and in debt." "I'm afraid I'm horribly sorry for her; she looks wretched." The big man got up. "Debt's the devil, Maria." "The reminders generally go to a hot place," said his wife, absently. "Think it over, Luke. Help me." "I must, my love," said Luke, meekly. And then chance cut the difficulty in two. Esmé, picking up the _Morning Post_, saw another paragraph. "Sir Cyril Blakeney's son and heir was to-day run over by a taxi-cab. Lady Blakeney was with her two children, returning to her house, when the eldest boy stepped off the footpath and was caught by the wheel of a passing cab. Faint hopes are entertained of his recovery." The paper slipped from Esmé's hands; she grew numb and cold. "She pushed him," she whispered to herself. "She was angry and pushed him." Her boy! Her baby! She knew now what she had sold and lost. Panting out his tiny life, dying!