The irritability had worn off, but the abstraction deepened when Jim Bainbridge escorted his family to the Sinclairs' house that evening. It was entirely a family gathering. Sinclair's sister and her husband were present, beside his wife's relations; there were no other guests. Jim Bainbridge, when he kissed his sister-in-law, had an odd feeling that there was another uninvited guest there, a hovering presence of which he alone was aware. This sinister, lurking shadow stood between Esme and the man who, all unconscious of the danger which threatened his happiness, welcomed his wife's relations with frank cordiality. Bainbridge wrung his hand hard on an impulse of genuine sympathy. He liked George. It distressed him to think of the blow which might fall at any moment. The calm happiness of Esme's face, George's genial smile, arrested his attention, played on his imagination to an unusual degree. It was not his wont to notice such things; but to-night he was stirred out of his phlegmatic indifference to a very vivid and human interest in the concerns of these people, whose lives were overshadowed by a tremendous crisis. The references to the baby, the laughing congratulations of the guests, jarred on his nerves. He refrained from any mention of the child. And at dinner, when Georgina's health was drunk in champagne, he alone ignored the toast. For the life of him, he could not have joined in the farce of the general rejoicing. Later, in the drawing-room, Esme sat down beside him and rallied him on his preoccupation. "You are bored, Jim," she said. "I believe you are longing to be home and in bed." "No. But I've got the toothache," he lied. "Poor old dear! I'm sorry. Come upstairs and have a peep at the babe asleep. She looks such a duck in her cot." He followed her from the room and upstairs to the nursery. There was a nurse in charge, but she withdrew when they entered, to Jim Bainbridge's infinite relief. Esme pulled aside the mosquito net and bent over the cot. Her eyes, the man observed, were soft with mother-love as she leaned down towards the sleeping child. He did not look at the child; he was intent upon her. "Isn't she sweet?" she said, and glanced up at him, smiling. His own face was grave, even stern in expression. He was watching her attentively, wondering about her, wondering how the news of Paul's return would affect her when she knew. "I believe you care more for that kid than you do for--any one," he said gruffly. "If you could go back... If it were possible, say, to begin again--with Paul... Would you be willing to give up the kid--for him?" Abruptly she straightened herself and stood beside the cot, holding the mosquito net in her hand, and looking at him fixedly with an air of troubled surprise. "Jim," she said, and her face saddened, "what put it into your mind to ask me that question? One can never go back. I wish you hadn't said that--to-night. What brought that idea into your mind?"