He drove back to his house; he piled fragrant chestnut wood upon the fire; he applied himself thoughtfully to a dish of golden risotto. "There is something strange about this miladi," he said to his favourite almond pudding. "No, all is not right." It was a weary journey. Little Cyril learnt to weep upon it, torn from kindly arms who knew how to hold him; he learnt the meaning of pain and hunger. He voiced his protest as best he could. "Oh! stop him, Esmé. Stop the brat!" Denise woke at the fretful wailing. "Make a bed for him there, a bed on the seat," she said. "He might fall off." Esmé held the whimpering bundle in her arms, sat wearily, afraid she might drop off to sleep. "Feed him then; he wants milk. Oh, what a terrible journey!" Yet she did nothing on it; for Esmé, curiously silent, saw to the child. A tall woman, kindly-faced, hurried through the crowd at the Gare; cried out as she saw the baby in Esmé's arms. "Lady Blakeney, is it not? I am the nurse, Mrs Stanson, engaged for your ladyship. Oh, milady, have you come alone--without a nurse?" "The nurse was useless, insolent, neglecting baby," said Lady Blakeney, carelessly. "Take him now. He is so naughty. The woman neglected him." "As those foreigners would do; yet he looks splendid. One moment, milady, while I gather these things." She put the baby into Denise's arms, turning to pick up some of the tiny traveller's luggage. "Oh, not like that, milady," she cried, for the small head flopped on a stiffly-held arm and the boy wailed fretfully. "H'm!" Esmé swept the mite out of Denise's hold. "Here! give him to me. H'sh, baby, hush!" The nurse looked puzzled. She had seen Lady Blakeney once in London, but she blinked now, afraid her memory had played her false. "Excuse me," she began, "I understood that this was her ladyship." She looked at Denise. "_I_ am Lady Blakeney," said Denise, angrily. "Oh! two taxis, please. I am tired of crying babies. Take him in one." Mrs Stanson looked grave. Esmé's eyes followed the tall woman who carried a little bundle down the platform. A sudden fierce ache of regret came to her--regret and anger. This little, white-limbed thing was hers. She would not have sent it off alone. "Her ladyship," said Mrs Stanson, later, as she put her charge to sleep, "does not seem to care for children, ma'am." "Some people do not." Esmé looked at the sleeping face. "He is happier now that you have him, nurse." Downstairs the God of Chance was working wonders. Denise, coming into the hall of the Bristol, cried out in astonishment. A big man was registering at the bureau. Her name was written before his. He swung round with a cry as he looked at it. "Denise!" his hands were on hers. He held them hard. "Denise, I got a paper at Marseilles. My poor child, out away there in Italy. Were you ill? It was two months too soon."