"It will upset everything," she moaned. "Scotland--the winter hunting--and then the expense afterwards. We were just right together, Bertie and I." Denise listened to the outburst, almost astonished, scarcely comprehending; half wistfully--she had no child; they would not have worried her. Her empty life might have been so different if they had come to her. "And Bertie," she said, "he hates it, as you do?" "He would, of course. He doesn't know. He would fuss and sentimentalize. Oh! Denise!" Esmé began to cry hysterically. "It will spoil everything. Something will have to be given up." Denise looked at her thoughtfully. This sheer selfishness was beyond her comprehension. "Perhaps when I was thirty," sobbed Esmé, "or thirty-five, and didn't want to fly about." "And then"--Denise Blakeney lighted another cigarette--"then, my Esmé, you might pray for the child you want--in vain." She got up, her weak mouth set slackly, her blue eyes shining. "Es--I'm in mortal fear--fear of Cyril." Esmé stopped crying to listen. "He'll divorce me," said Denise, dully. "He's off to Central Africa or somewhere now, but I know he means to, and what troubles you is the one thing which would save me. He told me once that if his wife had children he would never disgrace their mother. He meant it. Cyrrie says very little, and he means it all. He's so quiet, Es, so big. I'm afraid!" "But surely," Esmé queried, "there's no evidence?" "Oh! evidence!" Denise shrugged her shoulders. "I've been reckless lately, Es--a fool. I've stayed with those Bellew people near Ascot. I've been a fool with Jerry; he was such a boy that I was too open; being very little harm in it, I judged the opinion of onlookers by my own feelings; and Cyrrie's found out. He knows the mad things I've done. The boy was so proud of being my belonging--bah! I know! I can see Cyrrie look at me with a threat behind his eyes. Think of it, Esmé! The disgrace! Those vile papers reporting; poor Jerry defending; and then the after life. Oh! if one could only see in time. If I had stopped to think two years ago--it may be too late now. I've been absolutely making love to Cyrrie lately, and he looks at me with such a smile on his big face. You see, there's the title--it's as old as the world, almost--and all the money; and we have no heir; that vexes Cyrrie horribly. He'll get rid of me and marry Anne Bellairs, his cousin, a great, healthy, bovine country girl, while I sit in outer darkness and gnash my teeth." "Oh, Denise! Oh! if we could change--" Esmé's voice rang so shrilly that Lady Blakeney dropped her cigarette and picked it up again from the skirt of her rich white dress. "Esmé," she said, "it's burnt a hole in it. Heavens! yes! if we could!" She threw away the cigarette. "If we could!"