"I am giving them to Oliver to read, and then we'll burn them," she said simply. "Oh, hang it!" said Gore Helmsley, blankly; "this _has_ been a nice evening!" "In which you got your dinner and desserts," flashed Esmé, laughing openly. CHAPTER XI A solemn child, healthy in body, but with wistful eyes, paddled his spade into wet shingly sand at Bournemouth. He was precociously wise, already given to thought, to wondering as children wonder. What Cyril wondered was why there were so many scold words in the world? Why it was always, "Don't, Cyril!" and "Cyril, run away!" or "Cyril, I will not have you rough to your brother." Why mother, who was a beautiful thing, would catch up little Cecil and look so bitterly at him, and on more bitterly still to Cyril. "Funny how her ladyship adores Master Cecil," Mrs Stanson would confide to the under-nurse; "being delicate, I suppose." Cyril was heir to four places, to grouse moors and fishings, to diamonds and plate and pictures, all entailed. Cecil would have a younger son's ample portion, and no more. Cecil was puny, a weakling; his father sighed over him. Paddling his spade, Baby Cyril came round the castle, brushed a little roughly against Baby Cecil; the spoilt child fell and whimpered. "Cyril sorry. I sorry, Cecil." "Cyril, you rough little wretch!" Lady Blakeney leant forward, slapping the boy harshly. "You little bully!" "I"--Cyril touched the white place which stung on his soft cheek, the white which turned to dull red. "I--" His mouth quivered, but he said nothing, merely looked out at the heaving sea. The pathos in his child's eyes might have touched anyone but a mother jealous of another woman's child, storming behind a rage which must be hidden. Esmé Carteret's baby must oust Denise's son from his kingdom. "Ah, Denise! How can you?" A pained cry, another woman springing forward, catching the slapped baby to her. "Denise! How can you!" "Why not, Esmé? He's a born bully. Bad-tempered, always hurting Cecil. A great strong tyrant." The women's eyes met with anger and dislike flashing in both glances. It was not altogether chance which had brought Esmé to Bournemouth. She hunted health now, strove for what once had been hers to trifle with--hunted health and peace, and found neither. Denise's payments were desultory; she had to show outward civility to Esmé to make up for the half-yearly hush-money. Sir Cyril had houses at Bournemouth; she had offered one to the Carterets for nothing. "Poor Esmé, Cyril. I told her she might have the little lodge. She's looking wretched." "She's the most restless being on earth. Of course, Den; give it to her. If she had a pair of boys, now, as you have."