She sat still now, staring at the sea. Sometimes she would get into a bathing dress, and swim out. She was a fine swimmer, but the ripple of the salt water meant an hour's careful repairs. Her figure, too, had lost its supple beauty and she did not care to show it. Estelle Reynolds was swimming, carefully, with short, jerky strokes, Bertie holding one hand under her small, firm chin. Estelle's mother had married again; the girl lived on with her aunt in London. A dull life, only brightened by her friendship with the Carterets. With eyes which would not see Estelle and Bertie Carteret had put aside that day in Devonshire, tried to hide from each other how sweet it was to meet and talk, how easy to drop into the fatally intimate confidences when man and woman tell of their childhood, and their hopes and fears and foolish little adventures, as men and women only tell to those they care for. "She is no swimmer," said Esmé, contemptuously, "that Reynolds girl." "Your husband takes care of her." Denise Blakeney's laugh was full of spiteful meaning. "He will teach her to swim, belle Esmé." "I'll swim myself; I'll show them how." Esmé's bathing dress was by her side. She picked up the bundle, calling to her maid; regretted the impulse before she had got to her tent; flung herself hurriedly then into the thin webbing, fastened on stockings and sandals and a bright-coloured cap, and ran out. "Here, Bertie, tell Estelle to look at me." Vanity breaking out as she poised on the board, slipped into the cool water, swam easily, powerfully out to sea; the rush of the water soothed her nerves; she was its master, beating it down, cleaving her way through it. Treading water, she looked through the translucent depths; how quiet it was there. What if she gave up struggling and slid down to peace? She looked down, morbidly fascinated. But before peace there would be a choking struggle; the labouring of smothered lungs for precious air; the few moments of consciousness before the blackness came. A child's voice rose shrilly from the shore. "No, mumsie, Cyril didn't. He not sorry, 'cos he didn't." Esmé turned and swam back. She could not die. She would have a son of her own to still the longing for the sad-eyed boy she had sold. "See, Estelle--strike out! Don't be afraid. Let Bertie go." "But I am afraid, horribly. And I like one toe on the sand," said Estelle, placidly. "I swim all short, somehow." "It's because you are afraid." No one was looking at her; Esmé's interest in the swimming died out suddenly; she grew bored again, fretful. She went in, the bathing dress clinging to her, showing how thin she was growing. "You had better go in too, Estelle. You've been out for an hour. No, you'll never swim the Channel." Half nervously Bertie sent the girl away, tried to forget the thrill of contact as he held up the firm little chin, as he touched her soft round limbs in the water.