"Yes." Denise had to hide the pain in her eyes, for with Cecil's birth had come a fierce mother-love, making the careless indifference which she had felt for Cyril turn to bitter dislike. He got the measles, brought it to her boy, who almost died of it; whooping-cough, before the child was old enough to bear it well. They were down at Blakeney Court when Denise told her husband that she had lent Esmé the lodge. The boys were playing outside; the little one crawling solemnly, Cyril arranging sticks and flowers into a pattern. "He's got an extraordinary look of someone," said Sir Cyril. "Cecil's a true Blakeney, if he wasn't so delicate; but Cyril's finer--not like us; he mopes and dreams already." If there were no Cyril! Denise clenched her hands, understood how men felt before they brushed aside some life in their path. That day was wet later; she found the children playing in the picture-gallery, with Nurse Stanson showing a friend the Romneys and the Gainsboroughs, and other treasures which represented a fortune. Cyril loved one cavalier, painted on a fiery charger, an impossible beast, all tail and eyes and nostril. The boy was happy staring at the picture, patting at the great frame. "Cyrrie's man," he would say. "Cyrrie's man." "Oh, Cyril's man--all Cyril's men," Denise flashed out furiously. "No men for Cecil." "Cecil not care for Cyril's man, mummie," the child's eyes looked wistfully at Denise. "He never look up yet." "Oh, they'll all be yours--gloat over it!" snapped Denise. "Take your friend on, Mrs Stanson; show her the picture of Lady Mary Blakeney--the one by Lely. Yes, all yours!" Half unconsciously she pushed Cyril; he slipped on the polished floor, slid toward the fireplace, fell with his yellow head not three inches from the old stone kerb. Nurse Stanson ran to him, screaming. Demon-driven, Denise had watched. If--if--the little pate had hit the hard, cold stone, if her boy had been left heir. "All right, mummie--Cyril not hurt," he had said, bravely, as he got up. And now--they were playing at Bournemouth, and Baby Cyril had come through croup, with the best doctors in London striving against King Death for the life of Sir Cyril's heir. How many children would have died in the wheezing, cruel struggle! At heart it made Denise a murderess, and she hated herself for it. "You--you are cruel to that child," Esmé said. "You are, Denise. Take care." Two small, sand-dusted hands pushed her away. Cyril backed with dignity. "Mummie only made a miftook, tank you," he said--"only a miftook." He was loyal to the woman who hated him. Her child, yet he pushed her away, would not accept the clinging tenderness of her hands. Esmé sat down again, her eyes hard and bitter.