"Kicked about, never enough money, poky houses, a rattling two-seater, or a dogcart, a dog's life for a pretty woman," Jimmie had said lightly. "Stuck in some wretched country town or in some big station where the dust reeks of the army. I've pitied so many girls who have married soldiers. Think of your beauty now thrown away." And all the time as young Knox pleaded Sybil had recalled these words. Esmé went back to London next day, back to her little flat. A bleak wind swept along the streets, dark clouds raced across the sky. It was dreary, intensely cold, the flat was poky, its cosiness seemed to have deserted it, it had become a tawdry box. The furniture looked shabby, worn, the tenants had been careless. Esmé stood discontentedly pulling at her cushions, petulantly moving back china to old places. Her servants were new, inclined to be lazy. The cook looked blankly unenthusiastic as to lunch. "Couldn't possibly have all that in time to-day, mem. They'd send round something from Harrod's, no doubt." Esmé lunched ill-humouredly off galantine and tinned peas. She thought of the big houses she had been in; they must move, take a little house. This place was out of the way, inconvenient. She ordered flowers recklessly, telephoned to Denise inviting herself to dinner. The butler answered. "Yes, her ladyship would be dining in, he would ask." There was a long pause, then an answer. "Her ladyship would be pleased to see Mrs Carteret at eight." "She might have spoken herself," said Esmé, angrily. The afternoon dragged wearily. Esmé drove to one of the big shops, ordering new cushions, new coverings, but languidly; she meant to leave the flat and took no real interest in it. She went early to the Blakeneys. Denise was not dressed. No message came asking her to go to her friend's room. Esmé had to learn that an obligation creates constraint, as the person we owe money to, however generously given, is never a welcome guest. But Esmé left the pretty drawing-room. Its spaciousness made her envious, she stepped past Denise's room to the upper landings. Here Mrs Stanson was just coming to her supper. A little lightly-breathing thing lay asleep in his cot. "But, nurse, he's pale, isn't he, thin?" Esmé whispered. "He caught a cold, Mrs Carteret. Oh, nothing. I feared croup, but it passed. It's a trying month, you see, for tiny children." Lightly, so softly that the baby never stirred, Esmé stooped to kiss him, stood looking down at the child which ought to have been sleeping in the spare room at the flat. But he would have been a nuisance there, an inconvenience, she told herself insistently. Then fear tore at her heart. What if the child should die. "Be good to him," she whispered, slipping a sovereign into Mrs Stanson's hand. "Be good to him, Mrs Stanson."