"But he--Cyrrie--he won't go?" Esmé caught at the small soft fingers, moist with heat. A sudden fear gripped her heart. "Was Denise going to kill the boy? Of course she did not care." "Take care of him, Mrs Stanson. Oh! take care of him. I was there when he was born, you know. I used to act nurse for him. Aren't there those ozone things you hang up in bedrooms? Or, can't you get him away?" Esmé hung over the baby, jealous of his little life, panting, afraid. Mrs Stanson had taken several gold pieces from the child's visitor. She shrugged her plump shoulders. "Her ladyship doesn't care for children, Mrs Carteret, and that's the truth. She says I fuss, talk nonsense. He don't even get a drive every day, and Sir Cyril, he comes in, but he's her ladyship's husband. Hssh! baby, hssh!" For little Cyril began to cry querulously, wrinkling his peaky face. Esmé bent over him, crooning to him, her motherhood awake. Now she knew her madness. For this was hers, and she would have sent him away to breathe fresh air and grow into a big, strong man like Bertie. "It's a pity, mem, you haven't got one." The nurse lifted up the fretful child. "It is--a pity." Esmé's face was white and strained, the two patches of rouge standing out; she looked grey, old. "Oh, it is a pity, nurse," she swayed. "Laws! Mrs Carteret, you're ill. It's this cruel heat. Sit you there, and I'll run in for salts or a little sal volatile." "No." Esmé recovered herself. "No, nurse, thank you. It's only the heat. Well, take care of him; and better not tell her ladyship that I came over. She never likes my looking at the boy." Esmé knew now--she knew what a fool she had been. How, snatching at her ease, her comfort, her enjoyment, she had lost the boy who brought love with him. There was nothing to be done, nothing to be said; she dared not tell at this stage. Bertie would never forgive her. She might even be denied, disproved, by some jugglery. She went heavily homewards, walking on the hot pavement. An electric limousine flashed by her; a smiling face bowed, a white-gloved hand was waved. Denise was going home to luncheon. Bond Street again, less crowded now. Esmé saw a girl jump lightly from a taxi, turn to smile at someone inside. It was Sybil Chauntsey; the taxi passed Esmé and pulled up; she saw Jimmie Gore Helmsley get out. Where had these two been so early? They had got out separately, as if concealment were necessary. What a fool the girl was! What a fool! Esmé hailed a taxi; she was lunching at the Ritz, had asked three friends there. Bah! it would cost so much, and be over and forgotten in an hour. With a smile set on a weary face, Esmé drove on. She would snatch at amusement more greedily than ever! At eight in the morning a great London station is fully awake, but not yet stifling and noisy; the cool air of the night still lurks about the platforms; the glass has not got hot; the early people are cool themselves.