Esmé got up slowly, came numb and white to her hostess. She had had bad news; she lied dully, carelessly; a cousin was ill; she must leave at once. But if they liked to keep Bertie she was sure he would stay. "I must be near him; I must be near him," rang the tortured longing of her heart. If he died she must see him buried; stand by his grave. Something in the stricken face touched Mrs Holbrook. A motor could come round at once; catch the eleven-o'clock train; she was sorry. "Thank you. My maid can follow. Thank you and good-bye." "She went herself, my love," said Luke, contentedly. Oh! crawling slowness of the big car; of the flying express train; biting fear of what might be as she reached London. Their flat was cold, dusty; Esmé did not notice it; she unhooked the telephone. "Who is that--Mrs Stanson?" A pause. "_How_ is the child?" Swaying, Esmé listened. "Better--almost out of danger. It was exaggerated; his arm is crushed, but there are no internal injuries we hope. Who am I to say asked?" The nurse had not recognized the hoarse voice. "The ... Duchess of Boredom. Thank you ... thank you!" A great wave of relief swept over Esmé. Her boy would not die. Then, later, fresh waves of depression. He was not out of danger. Children went out in a minute. The hours dragged and she was afraid to ask again. Then, still sitting there, hunched in a cold room, she rang up. Denise's voice answered. "Who? Oh, it's you, Esmé. I'll shut the door. Now don't get hysterical, don't! The boy's doing well. He was naughty; it was his fault." "You pushed him," stormed Esmé. "Who told you?" Denise stopped, her voice grew ill-humoured. "No, you must not come here. I'll let you know. Oh, I promise I will. Don't be absurd." Esmé sat on, taking no count of passing hours. "But, oh, my poor Madame," wailed Marie, as she came in, "perished and alone." Marie, of course, had made up her mind to an intrigue. Madame had not gone for nothing. Marie was disappointed. But she lighted the fire, sympathized, sent for hot tea and toast, flitted about with a world of surmise hidden behind her black eyes. What was it? What trouble was Madame in? Knowledge was useful to clever people. The telephone bell whirred; before Esmé could come Marie had snatched up the receiver. "Is that you, Esmé? Quick! I've no time. The boy is doing well. What? Not Mrs Carteret? Oh, call her--at once." No necessity to call the woman who came flying in, her eyes wild with anxiety. Esmé listened for a moment, then came back to her tea slowly. It was Milady Blakeney's voice; Marie knew it. "There is something then amiss with the little Master Blakeney, Madame?" the maid said softly. "He is hurt, ill. His mother hates him," Esmé burst out, then checked herself. "It is sad that Madame who loves so much a bébé should not have a little son," said Marie. "I thought ... when I left Madame...."