"Lady Blakeney!" Luigi looked at the fair girl curiously. "But, Madame," he spoke French, "will not Madame return for the event to England--to the great physicians there--to her own home?" "Sir Cyril is away; her ladyship is lonely in England; has a fancy for sunshine and for solitude." The doctor bowed. "Ah! at such times there are ever fancies, better indulged. Ah! si, always better indulged." The ladies were coming in December. He would call as required; there were worthy servants to be found. There was one, English. "No," the elder woman shot out, "all Italian. We want your Italian cooking, Es--Denise and I. We want omelettes, macaroni, to amuse us in our solitude." "But, sapristi! a strange amusement," said the doctor to himself. "You will get us reliable servants, signor?" Denise asked. "Che lo sa," said Luigi, absently. "Ah! yes, Madame, certainly." "It is so kind of you," Denise went on graciously, "so very kind and good, signor." He kept her back, he pressed his slim, strong fingers together. "Madame, is it wise for your friend to be out here alone? She does not look strong; she is surely hysterical, nervous." "It is her fancy, signor. I have left England to be with her and indulge it." "The devotion of a friend," said Luigi. "And--Monsieur Sir Blakenee--is he satisfied?" "He is abroad, shooting. Miladi has written, trusts he may meet her in England in time. We, will return before the event; but it is well to be prepared, to know of help if it is needed." "That's all over," said Denise, coming out. "Why, child, don't look so white." Denise had written to her husband, her letter was making its way up to a camping-ground under huge mountains, where Sir Cyril was shooting. It told her news; named March as the date; prayed him to meet her in London. Went on to talk simply of having been a fool, no more, a fool, and of how she had loved him before he went. But now she had left her old life, was travelling with Esmé Carteret, enjoying herself as well as health would permit. The past was the past; in the future an heir to his name might make Cyrrie happier. She tried to tell before he left, but she was not sure then. A shallow woman, scheming for her own ends, she did not see the man's face as he read the letter. Opening it carelessly, sitting stricken, staring at it; his strong face stirred, the harsh lines slipping from it. "Poor Denise," he said. "It was that she wanted to tell. Oh! poor old Denise--after all these years. The letter's dated Florence; she says to write to England as they're moving about. Poor old Denise!" he went on, and looked into the fire. "Perhaps she was only a fool. But the mother of my child," said Sir Cyril, simply, "is my wife for evermore." His man, one he had had for years, was making a stew with skill. "Reynolds," he shot out, "Reynolds! We trek for the coast to-morrow. Her ladyship wants me, Reynolds. There's an heir coming." Reynolds gave polite congratulation.