She got down before Denise did. Felt the want of warmth in her hostess's greeting. Denise was splendidly gowned, gay, merry, looking younger, happier. Sir Cyril's eyes followed his wife, contentment visible in their look. "My dear Esmé, delighted, of _course_. When you are alone always come here. We've only a four for bridge--Susie and her husband. You can cut in." "I'll look on." Esmé felt that she was not wanted, she was odd man out. She flushed unhappily. Denise was full of plans, each one including Cyril now. She talked lightly of that boy Jerry. She was completely the happy wife, confident in her position. "And the boy. He's had a cold," Esmé said. "A cold has he? I think I heard him sniff?" "Yes, he's had a cold," Sir Cyril said. "He was quite feverish. Denise is not a nursery bird, I fear." "And you've been dining off gold plate at the Holbrooks, Esmé. I wouldn't go. Cyril and I went for a few last days with the Quorn. Cyril bought me such a lovely mare, all quality. Ah, here is Sue." Lady Susan Almorni was not a friend of Esmé's. Denise seemed to be leaving her smart friends, to be settling among the duller, greater people. "Bertie will be home to-morrow. I want to leave the flat, to come more west. It's poky, horribly stuffy. If--we could afford to." Esmé crumbled her toast, looked almost sullenly at Denise. "But could you? And it's such a dear little flat. Could you afford it, Esmé dear? You are so comfy there." The butler brought in the evening papers. Before they settled to play bridge Sir Cyril opened them. "Why, Mrs Carteret," he said, "this is awful about your cousins surely. The two Carteret boys have both been killed in a motor accident. It makes Bertie heir, I suppose, but what a tragedy." Esmé caught at the paper and read it feverishly. "To the title," she said. "It's entailed. Hugh Carteret can leave his money as he chooses--unless we have children." But she knew what a difference it must make. "You'll have to follow my example and have an heir now," laughed Denise. "To make it all certain. Eh, Esmé?" Esmé sat with the paper in her hands and did not answer. CHAPTER VII Spring rioting, chill and bleak, crushing the coming summer in its impish hands. A day when cold came creeping under doors, sat even by the fire and would not be denied. Looking into her draped glass Esmé was struck by new lines in her face, by a loss of her dazzling youth, by a tired look in her eyes. Discontent, weariness, were writing their names on her skin. Bertie would be home early. She had been lazy and not gone to the ship to meet him. He was coming to breakfast, the fires were smouldering in the sitting-room, the new housemaid reasonably desirous of "gaus." Esmé, in her prettiest wrapper, shivered and grew irritable. She had ordered an elaborate breakfast, but the new cook was a failure; the fish was sodden, the bacon half raw, the hot bread mere heated bakers' scones.