If gold could have been fried for dinner, and diamonds used for sauce, Sir Cyril would have ordered them that night. He was too big and quiet to be openly hilarious, but its very quiet made it more marked. He ordered a special dinner, special wines, fruit, boxes of sweets. The table was littered as if it were one at Maxim's. To-morrow they would search Paris for a memento, for something to mark this meeting. Esmé, listening, felt as some mortal who, standing in the cold, looks through clear glass at a blazing fire yet cannot warm himself. They shut a door on her; she had no boy lying upstairs; no husband to rejoice in his heir. The cold stung bitterly; it loosed dull pangs of envy, of futile wrath. For what had brought these two together was hers, and she had sold it. Sometimes they turned to her vaguely, bringing her into their plans. Esmé would come shopping in the morning, of course, help to choose jewels; Esmé had been such a friend--so devoted. "I'll never forget it, Mrs Carteret," Sir Cyril said once. "You lost half a year to keep my wife company. Lord! you're a real friend!" "Yes." Esmé crunched a silvered bonbon, a cunning mixture of almonds and fruit and sugar. She picked another up, looking at it. Had she not looked on life as a bonbon, to crunch prettily and enjoy, a painted, flavoured piece of sugar? She had money; she could go to the hidden shops on the second storeys, and buy the dainty fripperies that Paris knows how to produce; she wanted a fur coat, new frocks, hats, a dozen things. Sir Cyril was bending close to his wife, holding her out a glass of Chartreuse, clinking it against hers. "Den," his voice was stirred by deep emotion, "some day we'll go, you and I, and take that villa for a month, and I can see where my boy was born." The glassful of amber syrup fell on the table, the glass splinters dulled by the oily liquid. "Oh, some day," said Denise, trembling. "How stupid of me! But it was a dull spot, Cyrrie. It was only fancy, nerves, which took me there. Wasn't it dull, Den"--she stopped--"Esmé?" "I never hated any place so much in my life," said Esmé, dully. That night she crept along the corridor, stood listening at a door. Primitive instinct was stronger than the power of money. Her boy lay sleeping in that quiet room. "Oh, Esmé!"--Denise called her into her room next day--"Esmé! Come here! You can go, Summers." Her new maid, sent from England with the nurse, went quietly out. "Esmé!" Denise lowered her voice. "About that money. I owe you some now. I can't write cheques, you see, every half-year; but this time I can explain." She threw a slip of paper across to Esmé. "Thank you. And the boy?" said Esmé. "Oh! he's all right. I saw Mrs Stanson. He slept well. Don't mess about him, Esmé! It would only look silly--better not. Will you meet us at the Ritz for _déjeuner_?" Esmé excused herself. She might be late. She would come back to the hotel.