"Comin' just in time," muttered the valet to the stew. "Just in time, milady." Denise had no thought of how her husband's big nature would be moved. How, with old tender thoughts crowding back on him, he sat in the shadows and made plans, plans which included her, Denise, his wife. He'd take her on that yachting trip she'd hankered for; she'd want a change in the spring; they'd have a new honeymoon off her pet coast of Italy. But could they leave the child? The mystery of birth comes freshly to each man who calls himself Father for the first time. The child--He'd be in the old nurseries at White Friars, behind the wooden bars. He'd be a sturdy boy, strong, bright-eyed, no puling weakling, but a true Blakeney, clean-limbed and big. Soon he'd come toddling out in the gardens, a little creature wondering at big life; a mite who had to be taught the names of simple things. And later still he would ride and shoot and fish and swim, and learn that the Blakeneys were men of clean lives, and that he must follow the tracks of his fathers. Honour first, the house motto was carved over the old mantelshelf in the hall, where Cyril had been shown it as a boy. Honour first! And when he re-read his letter, the letter which changed his life from loneliness to sudden hope of happiness, Denise was coming out of the little house in the Italian town, puckering her forehead lest she had forgotten anything to make her scheme perfect. "If we catch that weekly boat we could get to England by February, Reynolds." "Yes, Sir Cyril; just about the second or first week of February." "I can cable from the coast. Tell her ladyship to meet me." Sir Cyril was boyish as he sat dreaming. Big people have the power to put the past behind them, to see sunshine in the future. * * * * * The brown-skinned Italian nurse looked regretfully at the morsel of humanity in her arms. A bonny, bright-eyed little thing, blinking at the world solemnly. "I shall miss my bambino, signora," she said sadly. Esmé talked haltingly; she bent over the boy, looking down at him; she was pale, a little worn and thin; some of the brilliance had left her eyes. "Is he not a pride--a joy? Ah, signora. Old Beatrice has nursed many bambinos, but none such as this." Esmé turned away impatiently. She looked out across the Italian landscape, fair even in winter. It was January. There would be time to hunt still in England, to enjoy herself. To taste the reward of her scheme. But.... "None such as this." The mite cooed at nothing, smiling and stretching his hands. "Esmé! I mean Denise!" Lady Blakeney ran into the room, calling excitedly: "My dear, the post is in." "Well! Carefully, Esmé." Esmé flung accent on the name. "Well?" "The post! Cyril has written; oh, it's splendid." The nurse bent over her charge, crooning to it, but there was a curious look on her face.