With a little sob Denise held to the big strong hands, knew then what she had so nearly lost; this man's protection, his name; his kind eyes looked into hers. The past was past; she knew that. Some women make resolutions and keep them. Denise did then. For the future, the future she had made by fraud, Sir Cyril Blakeney's wife should be above suspicion. "Oh, Denny, why didn't you tell me--keep me here?" "I was afraid," she faltered. "You were cross then. And I was not sure." "I was cross then." He took her away to a quiet corner. "That's over, my wife. And the boy? Come up to see him. Our boy! He's not delicate, I hope?" "Oh, not yet--he'll be asleep now." Denise was gay, radiant, her colour bright. "I'm hungry, Cyrrie. Let's have dinner now--and talk--talk!" "Talk," he laughed. "Why didn't you wire for Sir Herman to go out? Were you bad? I never saw you looking stronger." "Oh, no, I was not bad. I'm very strong," she said, a little uneasily. "And you came on so soon. There's nothing wrong with him, is there? Oh, Denise, tell me." "Wrong with him? No!" she said, laughing carelessly. "He's a great baby." Denise was looking through a door of life which she had never tried to open, that of love and trust. She was too shallow to regret the use of the false key which she had forced it open with. She was safe; Cyril would never bring up the past to the boy's mother. "Come then, and see a sleeping bundle of flannels," she said. The boy had just gone to sleep. Sir Cyril's first view of him was with Esmé stooping over the cot, looking wistfully down at the tiny face. "Mrs Carteret has quite a way with a child," said the nurse, graciously. "He's a splendid boy, Sir Cyril." Sir Cyril had had shy ideas of a something whispered across the new hope in his life, of a promise for the future or regrets for the past. As it was, he could only stand almost awkwardly, afraid that a clumsy movement might wake the child. "Great fellow, isn't he?" he said sheepishly. "A splendid boy, Sir Cyril--really splendid; fair, sir, as you are; he has a curious mark, a regular small plum, on his shoulder." Esmé started. Just on her shoulder she had a round, purple mark, shaped as a plum; she had never dreamt of the baby inheriting it. A true Blakeney, big and strong, cleanly made, Sir Cyril stood by the cot, with the pride of this heir to his big in him. "He's just wonderful, Den," he said simply. "I thought that, coming too soon, he might be puny, delicate--but he's fine." Esmé turned away. It was her boy they praised, and she knew the bitterness of jealousy.