"Nor do I hold with the heat of these here rooms," said the English nurse, "and with the cold a-rushing in like a mad dog with its mouth open if one stirs a window. Give me air for a child, Mrs Carteret, air and warmth; but above all, air." An autocrat of the nursery, this Mrs Stanson, who had nursed heirs of great houses and loved her charges. A death now, the passing of pretty delicate Lady de Powers and her infant son, had set the woman free. "You'll love him, Mrs Stanson--be good to him?" Esmé flung out the words in sudden impulse; she took the smiling baby up. "I declare, Mrs Carteret, he might be yours instead of her ladyship's," laughed the nurse. "She came in for five minutes, and asked if I wanted anything, and to order what I wanted. I made it two nursery-maids to-day. Like many young mothers, she's careless. It's the ladies without that would give their eyes for one," said Mrs Stanson, softly. "Without." A slur on her, Esmé, whose child was in her arms. Something hurt in her throat; she turned red and then white. She sat for an hour in the big bright room, listening to all the ills which lurk in wait for infant life, related with gusto by the nurse. A little chill, a spoon of soured food, and poof! out goes the life; then later, chicken-pox, measles, whooping-cough; wet feet. It seemed wonderful to think that there were any children left alive. Little Cyril, dribbling thoughtfully, had no idea of what was before him. But at the end, comfort. "And yet they lives," said Mrs Stanson, "lives on, on beer and dripping, which I am informed is used as baby food by the very poor." Denise came in for tea, fresh, radiant, wrapped in a great stole of fox. Big Sir Cyril pulling little boxes innumerable from his pockets. They had a sitting-room. Denise called Esmé in to her, spread purchases on the table. "See, Esmé--this pendant, isn't it sweet? And this enamel clasp--and this brooch--and that diamond heart." The table glittered with the things. "Oh, Cyril could not buy enough for me. He is so good." Almost sullenly Esmé looked down at the stone of green, white and red; the pendant and necklace was the one which she had coveted. Denise might offer to give her some of these; she might ask her if there was nothing she wanted. "And I got you something, Es--just as remembrance. Cyril wished me to. Summers! bring in the parcels. Yes, there it is." Esmé knew the label--that of a huge shop close to the Place de l'Opera; good, but bourgeois, cheap. "See! I hate that musquash thing you wear. It's too dark for you." Denise pulled out a stole of brown fox--a huge thing, covered with tails, but meretricious, showy; the satin of the lining crackled as she touched it. This for all she had done for her friend. "Thank you, Denise." Esmé took up the fur. "How pretty. It was nice of you to think of me, now that I am of no further use."