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Title: The Oyster

Author: Peer

Release date: February 8, 2011 [eBook #35217]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Andrew Sly, Al Haines and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OYSTER ***

The Oyster

By

a Peer

London
John Long, Limited
Norris Street, Haymarket

[All rights reserved]

First Published in 1914

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

In Two Editions, 6s. and 1s. net.

     Theo
     The Hard Way
     The Decoy Duck
     A Wife Imperative
     To Justify the Means
     The Ordeal of Silence

        All Published by
JOHN LONG, LIMITED, London

The Oyster

CHAPTER I

Gleams of bright sunshine came through the windows of the trim little flat into the drawing-room furnished in miniature aping of luxury. The chairs and tables were Sheraton—Sheraton passably imitated—the covering rich brocade. Soft white cushion covers, fine as cobwebs, clothed the big squares stuffed with feathers. Late narcissi and early roses made the air heavy with scent. The place was small, but it carried the air of comfort; it was a miniature of its roomy brothers and sisters in big town houses. The door of the dining-room, standing open, showed the same taste. Polished inlaid mahogany, good silver, embroidered table linen. Early as it was there had been strawberries for breakfast, and cream, and hot bread.

"Luncheon at the Berkeley. It will be a good one too. I'm driving with Denise to that show at the Duchess's. Tea at the Carlton. Dining with Robbie at his club; the Gay Delight afterwards; supper at Jules. Oh! the days are not half long enough."

Long-limbed, slender, gracefully pretty, Esmé Carteret turned over the leaves of her engagement-book. Her blue eyes sparkled behind dark lashes; her skin was fair and carefully looked after. She was so bright, so dazzling, that at first sight one missed the selfishness of the weak, red-lipped mouth, the shallowness of the blue eyes.

"Not half long enough," she repeated. "Oh, Bertie, you—"

A flashing smile, a hand held out, yet in the greeting no look of the real love some women feel for their husbands.

"Well, Butterfly." Bertie Carteret had a bundle of letters in his hands; he was opening them methodically with an ivory cutter.

A dark man, with a quiet, strong face. Dazzled, attracted by this fair piece of womanhood, loving her as men love when they do not stop to look further than the flesh and blood they covet, and so, married. And now, loving her still, but with eyes which were no longer blinded, with little lines of thought crinkling round his eyes when he looked at her, yet still her slave if she ordered him, thrilling to the satin softness of her skin, the scented masses of her hair.

"Well, my Butterfly," he said, opening another letter.

Esmé did not pay her own bills. She had not as yet sufficient wisdom to keep the house accounts. It saved trouble to let Bertie take them.

"Esmé child!" He looked at the total written under a long line of figures. "Esmé! those cushion covers are not made of gold, are they?"

"No—hand embroidery," she said carelessly. "Everyone gets them."

"They seem to represent gold, you extravagant child."

"Dollie Maynard had them; she kind of crowed over mine last day we had bridge here. I must have things same as other people, Bert. I can't be shabby and dowdy."

"So it seems." He opened several other letters. "Well, we can just do it, girlie, so it doesn't matter. Breakfast now. I was working hard this morning."

"And I was eating strawberries. Bobbie sent them. There are eggs for you."

"Once upon a time laid by a hen," he said resignedly. "Got the stalls for to-night. That blue gown suits you, Butterfly."

"It ought to," she said, coming in to give him his breakfast. "It cost fifteen guineas."

Bertie Carteret was adjutant of volunteers in London; he had taken it to please Esmé, who would not endure the idea of a country station in Ireland.

Now Carteret was going abroad, his adjutancy over. His battalion was in South Africa; he was to join it there until he got something else to do. Esmé flashed out at the thought of the place.

"Dust and bottled butter; black servants and white ants. No thank you, Bertie—I won't go."

No one expected sacrifice from Esmé; she was too pretty, too brilliant, to endure worry or trouble. Bertie Carteret smiled at her. She should stay at home. They would soon get something else to do, and he would come back.

Esmé bent across to him that day, her face set in unwonted thought.

"Just think if your Uncle Hugh had no sons," she said, "he'd leave you everything. We'd be rich then."

Bertie laughed. Two boys made barrier between him and hopes of the Carteret money.

A pleasure-loving pair, absolutely happy in their way. Well enough off to have all they wanted, and pleasant enough to get the rest from their friends.

They chattered through breakfast of engagements, parties, trips, of days filled to the brim. Bertie was lunching at the Bath Club. Esmé, with her friend, Denise Blakeney, at the Carlton.

"And oh, Bert—ring up those fruiterer people. Dollie dines here to-morrow. We must have strawberries, and asparagus—the fat kind—and peas, Bert. She had them—Dollie. I don't want her to go away and talk of 'those poor Carterets and their mutton chops'—and send in matron glaces, Bert, and sweets from Buzzard's, will you, and some Petit Fours for tea."

"Anything else?" he said. "Esmé, do you know, my Butterfly, that we spend every penny we have, and a little more?"

With a laugh she slipped a supple arm about his neck. "And why not?" she said lightly—"why not, Sir Croaker?"

He drew her to his knee, kissing her firm neck, her soft arms—on fire to her touch.

"She was a witch," he told her, "and a Butterfly, hovering over a man's heart." She should have her strawberries, her sweeties. "And—what is it?"

For Esmé had turned white, put her hand to her throat, a sudden nausea seizing her.

"I've been like that twice before," she said; "it's the racket. Bertie, I don't feel up to luncheon now, and I like to be hungry when I lunch with Denise. Oh, thank you, dear."

For he brought smelling-salts, holding the fragrant, pungent, scented stuff to her nostrils. He was genuinely anxious.

"It's nothing," she said lightly; "something disagreed with me."

"Lunching with Denise?" He lighted his pipe. Carteret was not a cigarette-smoker. "Ever see Blakeney with her now, girlie?"

"No-o," she said reluctantly.

"H'm! I hear they're not too good pals. Denise has been playing the fool with young Jerry Roche—the 'wily fish' as they call him. She'd better not go too far with Cyril Blakeney. I was at school with him—came just when he left. But I knew his brother there also. I tell you, Esmé, they're a bad lot to vex."

Esmé shook her head thoughtfully.

"Hope Jimmie Helmsley won't be at luncheon," Carteret went on. "Steer clear of him, old dear."

"I'm lunching with him on Saturday, Bert."

"Well, don't again. He's a beast. Of course there's no fear of you, but there was the Grange Stukeley girl, poor soul, married off to a parson cousin; and Lettice Greene, and—oh, heaps of his victims."

There are some women who create trust. The dazzle about Esmé was not one of warmth. It was cold as she was selfish. Her husband, without realizing this, yet knew that he might trust her implicitly, that beyond mere careless flirtation nothing amused her.

"Well, good-bye, Esmé. I must go to do a few things which don't want doing, even as this morning I paraded unwilling youths at seven."

Carteret strolled out. Esmé picked up the salts bottle, sniffing at it. She rang for a trim, superior maid to take away, going back herself to the pretty drawing-room to write a few notes.

"I'm feeling rotten," wrote Esmé to a girl friend, "slack and seedy—" and then she jumped up, crying out aloud.

"Not that! Not that! Not the end of their dual in the treble. Not the real cares of life forced on her. Oh, it could not be—it could not!" Esmé raged round the room, crying hysterically, fighting off an imaginary enemy with her hands.

It would mean a move from the little expensive flat. Doctors, nurses, extra maids swallowing their income.

"It can't be!" she stormed. "I'm mad!" and rushed off to dress.

She looked hungrily at her slim figure in her glass, watched her maid fasten hooks and buttons until the perfectly-cut early summer gown seemed to cling to the slender figure. There was that, too—a figure spoilt. Dowdy, disfiguring clothes, and fear, the fear of the inevitable. She was counting, calculating as the maid finished fastening her dress, brought her a cloudy feather wrap, deep brown over the creamy gown, long white gloves, a scented handkerchief, a bunch of deep pink roses.

"Shall I alter Madame's yellow gown?" Marie wondered at Esmé's silence. "Madame is weary of its present aspect, with silver and violet. I can make it new—and the waist, it seemed a little tight last evening for Madame."

"It wasn't," Esmé flung out. "It's quite right. Get me new corsets, Marie—these are old. A taxi, yes."

Speeding westward swiftly, but with dread flying as swiftly. Not that—not the ending of her careless, selfish life.

"Why, Esmé, what a pretty gown; but you look pale, dear."

Lady Blakeney was at the Berkeley. A big, soft woman, with a weak, pretty face, palpably face-creamed, powdered, tinted, yet the whole effect that of a carefully-done picture, harmonizing, never clashing. With her brown hair, her deep brown eyes, she was a foil to flashing, dazzling Esmé.

"Just four, you see," Lady Blakeney sauntered to her table. She was in dull rose, exquisitely dressed.

"Yes, Jerry and Jimmie Helmsley."

Lord Gerald Roche, slim, distinctly young, just getting over being deeply in love, and still trying to think he was a victim to it, more impressive, as if to whip his jaded fancy, came in; a bunch of rare mauve orchids, fresh from a florist's, in his hand. Behind him, Jimmie Gore Helmsley, a tall man, dark, with satyr's ears, thick, sensual lips, and black eyes of cool determination. No one realized Jimmie's fascination until they spoke to him. It was in his manner, his power of subtle flattery, of making the woman he spoke to feel herself someone apart, not of common attraction, but a goddess, an allurement.

Unkind men, unfascinated, called Jimmie's black eyes boiled sloes, and swore that he rouged his cheeks; but women raved about him.

Jimmie was a pursuer of many women, a relentless one if his fancy were touched; there were girls—girls of his own rank of life—who whispered his name bitterly. The plucking of a bird sometimes amused him more than the wearing of a full-blown rose.

"Ah you! the sunshine is here now." He bent over Esmé's hands, and his flattery was as water pattering off polished marble. Esmé had no use for the Gore Helmsleys of life; she had laughed when he had given her a flower as though it were made of diamonds. Jimmie made things as cheap for himself as he could.

But Esmé talked to him now. Jerry was almost whispering to Denise Blakeney, making his adoration foolishly conspicuous.

The restaurant was filling. Denise had ordered luncheon; she never trusted to chance. A soufflet of fish, asparagus, grilled fillets of beef.

As the fish was handed to them, Denise Blakeney started and flushed painfully. Her young admirer had been showing her a jewel flashing in a tiny box—a pear-shaped pink pearl.

"Oh!" she cried sharply, and pushed the box away.

A bluff man, with heavy features, had gone up the room and sat down at a small table. His companion was an elderly woman, dowdy, rather fussily impressed.

"It's Cyrrie!" said Denise. "Cyrrie and his old Aunt Grace. He asked me to have her at Grosvenor Square to-day, and I told him a fib to escape." Denise fidgeted uneasily, her colour changing. "I told one fib," she said, "now it will take a dozen more to make it credible."

"The fib is a mental fly," said Jimmie, laughing; "he's grown large quickly. Cheer up, Milady, don't look tragic."

The big man nodded to his wife with a careless smile. It is an Englishman's need to be outwardly pleasant, to glaze a volcano with a laugh—in public.

"He hasn't scolded me enough lately," said Denise, grimly. "And the nature of husbands being to scold, it makes me nervous." She watched Cyrrie narrowly.

"Aunt Grace is having boiled chicken, specially ordered for her; she will finish up with stewed fruit and rice. It makes it so difficult when she comes. My cook is uncertain as to boiling chickens plainly." Lady Blakeney tried to fling off her depression, to do her duty as hostess. She muttered something sharply to Lord Gerald, she talked a little too fast, a little too gaily.

Esmé would flash smiles, planning some future gaiety, forget for a moment, and then, across her happiness, a cloud rose looming, threatening. Oh! it could not be! It must not be! There were so many things she meant to do. Bertie's appointment was up; he was going to South Africa until they got something else, or his other battalion came to Aldershot. Exchanges could always be managed. And Esmé was due at Trouville in August; she was going on to Scotland; she had been asked to Cheshire to hunt for two months. It must not be!

Once, in a spasm of fear, she clenched her hand, crushing her glass in her fingers, spilling her champagne. Esmé drank champagne on a hot May day because it looked well to see it there, because it brightened her wits, made pleasure keener. She liked expensive dishes, ordering them recklessly when she was asked out, taking the best of everything. She was never tired, never knew sleeplessness; could dance until four and be out riding next morning, with her bright colour undimmed. Perfect health makes perfect temper. Esmé was an unruffled companion, provided she got her own way. Down in the country, without amusement, she would have fretted, beaten against bars of dulness.

"Oh, Mrs Carteret!" she heard Jimmie exclaim as the amber liquid vanished, as the broken glass tinkled together on the cloth. "What dream moved you?" he whispered, bending close. "What, lady fair?"

A man who could throw meaning into his lightest word, here it was implied, had she thought of hidden things; the eyes burning into hers expressed that she had thought of him. Though every road in the map of love was known to Jimmie Gore Helmsley, he hinted at unknown turns, at heights unclimbed to each fresh companion he took by the route, knowing how women love mystery and hate the flat, soft paths they can see too well.

"Of what?" he whispered. "If I dared to think. It would make Friday—"

"Don't dare," Esmé flashed at him mockingly. "And Friday—where do we lunch on Friday?" she asked carelessly. "Let it be near Dover Street; I must be at the club at half-past two."

Esmé looked shrewdly at the man, wondered what women saw in the sloe-black eyes, the high-coloured cheeks; wondered why girls had made fools of themselves for him.

"I heard of an old friend of yours to-day," she said—"Gracie Stukeley—I forget her married name."

Jimmie nodded carelessly; there were no chinks in his armour. He gave no thought to a little fool who had come flying to his rooms because someone vexed her, who prattled to him of divorce; he was rather fond, in a way, of his big, swearing, hard-riding wife. He remembered that Grace Stukeley had to be married off to save her people's name.

"Nice girl," he said carelessly; "but a fool."

"Ah, Denise! You did not lunch with Eva? She put you off an hour ago; I see."

Big Cyril paused as he passed his wife. Denise made sweetly-drawled apology to Aunt Grace.

"I see," said Sir Cyril, his big face set a little grimly; "and now, whither away, Denise? To drive—to the cloth show? Well—we meet at dinner."

"Yes—to drive;" but first Denise knew that she had meant to go home to spend an hour with Jerry in her boudoir. And now she was afraid; she faltered and flushed. Would not Aunt Grace drive? Esmé could come any day.

Aunt Grace, easily flattered, gravely believing the previous engagement, accepted willingly.

She quite understood how difficult it was to find time to receive visitors from the country. Engagements were sacred. The vicar had never forgiven her once because she forgot to go to tea to meet the bishop's wife, and the hot buns were overcooked waiting for her. Mrs Lemon made a speciality of hot buns. Grace Bullingham chattered on, delighted with her luncheon, her day in London; but Sir Cyril stood silent, a curious smile on his lips.

"You're coming, Cyrrie? Denise, isn't Cyrrie coming?"

"The electric limousine of the moment has only room for two—and an interloper," said Blakeney. "No, I'm not coming, Aunt Grace. I should be the interloper. But I'll meet you at four at the station, the car can take you there, and—"

Denise was still flustered; still talking nervously. She arranged to meet Esmé again; she fussed uneasily, afraid that Jerry might be openly impressive, that he might try to whisper his regret.

"Now, auntie, come along. Au revoir, Esmé. Good-bye, Lord Gerald. See you some time next week—to luncheon on Sunday if there's no other attraction."

Something fell with a little clatter on the pavement. Sir Cyril stooped and picked it up.

"You've dropped this," he said to his wife.

It was a pear-shaped pink pearl set with tiny diamonds, a valuable toy.

Denise took it from him, hesitating.

"A pretty thing," said Blakeney, quietly. "Be more careful of it, Denise."

"Sit and smoke a cigarette with me," Esmé heard Gore Helmsley's caressing voice close to her, "in my club. And look here—I've a lovely scheme—listen!"

The scheme was unrolled simply. As Carteret would be away, Esmé must come to Leicestershire for a few days in the winter. He had a lodge there; she could get another girl to come.

"I'll lend you horses," said Jimmie. "You'd sell them for me with your riding. Brutally frank, ain't I, but you know I must keep going. Come for a month."

Another month's hunting after Christmas; the fun of staying with three men. Four or five days a week on perfect mounts. Bridge in the evenings; the planning of tea-gowns, the airing of new habits.

She was not afraid of Jimmie, or of any man. Esmé did not know the lower depths Gore Helmsley was capable of in hours when he mixed with the underworld—the great stream which glides beneath London's surface.

"I'd love to," Esmé began.

And then again the sudden fear. May—this was May. In January there might be no hunting, no enjoyment, nothing but a weary waiting for what must be.

"I'll come," she said gaily; "I must have my hunting. Oh! I must!"

Gore Helmsley smiled softly. "And—drop a hint to Denise Blakeney to go slow," he said. "Those big men think a lot."

CHAPTER II

May made her brilliant, treacherous way across her allotted span of days. A thing of sunshine, a lady of bitter winds, she laid her finger on London's pulse and felt it throb to life beneath her touch. She saw the golden sacrifices made to the gods of the season; money poured out as water in the huge city; money spent everywhere; in the crowded shops; in stately salons, where the great dressmakers created their models; on cabs and motors; on fruit and flowers and vegetables out of season—since it is ordained that when the gifts of the earth come to their ordinary time your entertainer has no use for them.

Strawberries in June are mere berries of no worth; asparagus in May becomes a comrade to cabbage. It is only that which costs much money which is of value in the eyes of the rich.

Hundreds of pounds on roses to decorate walls for one night; odd hundreds on a gown which will never be worn twice; the clerks, the poor, look on without envy, merely with admiration, with a glow perhaps of pride for the great country which can pour out gold as water.

Esmé Carteret, in a soft muslin gown, sat in her pretty drawing-room; sat for a moment, jumped up restlessly, trying to escape her thoughts.

Suspicion had become certainty; there was no escape save through folly or worse; her easy happiness was at an end.

"Vilette has 'phoned, madame. She wishes to know if you will have your gown for Cup day quite tight, with a soft chiffon coat, she says."

"I'll think of it, Marie. No, tell her not to; make it loose, soft."

Marie coughed discreetly. Marie guessed—or knew.

Esmé reddened, tore at a pink carnation, pulling its fragrant petals to pieces.

In ten minutes her guests would be there; she would have to talk to them, to laugh and chatter, and not show her uneasiness.

Dollie Maynard, fluttering in, a slender, bright-eyed woman, brainless and yet sharp-witted, weighing men and women by what they could give her. Denise Blakeney was coming; they were all going on to Ranelagh. Esmé's flat was not much out of the way.

Esmé's little lunches were perfection in their way; there was sure to be some highly-spiced story to be discussed; someone would have transgressed or be about to transgress, someone would already have given London food for gossip.

"Esmé, dear! what lovely flowers!" Dollie's quick eyes appraised the roses. "Oh! extravagant Esmé!—or is it Esmé well beloved, with a someone who wastes his income at a florist's."

"In this case—my lawful spouse! He sent them in yesterday." Esmé omitted to say that she had asked for them.

"You are a model pair, Esmé." Dollie sat down; she was a woman who was never hardly dressed; chiffons, laces seemed necessary to soften her sharp little face. "You've all you want. Oh—Denise!"

Denise Blakeney, looking worried—her soft, weak face was drawn a little. Dollie was fluttering softness; Denise Blakeney solid wealth; the pearls on her throat were worth a fortune; the diamonds pinned about her dress splendid in their flashing purity.

Dollie detested Esmé because she did so much on half the Maynards' income; she envied Denise deeply.

"It's a mystery how the Carterets manage," Dollie would whisper. "A mystery—unless—" and then came the whisper which kills reputation, the hint which sets the world talking, in this case generally put aside with an "Oh! they've enough, those two, and people are very good to her—she's so pretty."

Another time Esmé would have been proud of her luncheon; the soles in cunning sauce; the soufflet of peas; the cutlets; the savoury—Esmé prided herself on original savouries. There was hock which was owed to bright smiles to a Society wine merchant, who sent it to her at cost price.

On other days Esmé would have smiled to herself at Dollie Maynard's peevish envy, at the praise veiled by pricks of innuendo.

"Esmé dear, you might be a millionaire. How delicious this hock is. Holbrook keeps it, but it's beyond poor little me; he told me the price. But to you perhaps he relents."

Coffee, liqueurs, cigarettes; then Dollie fluttered away, called for by friends.

"Shall we go?"—Denise Blakeney strolled to the window—"or shall I send the car away? Esmé, I'm in bad spirits; it's raining, too!"

"And I am in bad spirits." Esmé looked pinched, almost unhealthy. "Yes, tell her to come back, Denise—let's talk."

Speech is the safety valve of sorrow; a trouble which can be spoken of will not hurt gravely. It did Esmé good to fling out her fears—to tell of what might—what would be.

"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!"

In her heart she knew she ought to tell Esmé not to be foolishly hysterical. Talk quietly and soothe her. Instead, with her eyes alight, she fed the flame of the fear of loss of fun. Talked of how a baby was a nuisance in London, of how much they cost.

"If you could give me yours," she said, "and pretend that it was mine. Lord! what a difference it would make for me."

Esmé sat staring at her, puzzled.

"Oh! I suppose it's too melodramatic to think of," Denise said, getting up. "It's still pouring, and I'm going home. We have people to dinner to-night. Cheer up, dear."

She left Esmé sitting brooding alone; she had been so happy with her husband; there was just enough—enough for amusement, for entertaining mildly, for paying visits. Her pretty face won many friends; people were kind to so pleasant a guest.

"Oh! I can't afford it! I'd love to go!" and then someone found an outsider at ten to one, or a stock which was safe to rise, and someone else sent wine at wholesale prices; someone else fruit and flowers. They were such a merry pair; they ought to enjoy themselves, was the world's verdict.

Esmé knew the value of smiles; in shops, in Society they were current coinage to her. She did not want to be tied, to have to weary over a something more important than she was.

"If we could only change," said Esmé, dolefully. "Denise quite sees how it will spoil everything."

"Call a taxi, Marie. I'll go to the club to tea."

Denise went to pay some calls, and then to her house in Grosvenor Square. The scent of flowers drifted from the hall; she loved to fill it with anything sweet. The butler handed her her letters as she passed—invitations, notes.

She went into her boudoir at the back of the drawing-room, a nest of blue, background for her fair beauty, with flowers everywhere.

Denise shivered; she was a Someone—a well-known hostess in society; a personage in her way; she went to dull house-parties, where royalty was entertained; and she yawned sorely but yet was glad to go. Where one ate simple food and had to smoke in the conservatories, because a very great lady was an advocate for simplicity.

"And if—if—" her fears were not unfounded.

Denise knew what it would mean. A few loyal friends writing kindly letters before they slipped away from her. Cold, evasive nods from people who would not cut her; the delighted, uplifted noses of the people she had ignored.

A hole-and-corner marriage somewhere with young Jerry, who was already wearying of his chains; a marriage reft of all things which makes marriage a joy. Life in some poky place abroad or in the country, received on sufferance or not at all.

Denise flung out her hands as if to ward off an enemy. She heard her husband coming in; his heavy step on the stairs; his deep, even voice.

"Her ladyship in? Yes? A message from Lord Hugh Landseer; wished Sir Cyril to lunch there to-morrow to discuss guns, etc. Yes. Dinner at eight or half-past? At eight-fifteen? The champagne? Better have two sorts out, Lady St Clare didn't like Bollinger."

There was a cool reserve of strength in Cyril Blakeney's trivial words; he thought slowly, spoke slowly, but seldom idly. He was a man who could wait. Wait for a day which he believed would be good, wait for a young dog which he thought might improve. "Give him a year—we'll see then." And if at the end of the time the setter was still hopeless, he was not seen again. Cyril Blakeney would not sell a dog to be beaten into submission—and the end was swift and painless. A vicious horse, a bad jumper, went the same way. People did not dispute his opinions; if they could not agree they listened to the arguments and wondered at their quiet shrewdness.

Denise heard the heavy step go on; he did not come into her boudoir. She went up herself, fidgeting over her dresses, coming down at last in shimmering opal satin, a crown of pearls in her soft hair, pearls at her throat, and in the lace on her bodice one pear-shaped and pink. Stanley, her maid, had fastened it in, picking it out of several jewels.

Denise looked at them and shivered again. Her diamonds were magnificent, but they were not hers; they were heirlooms of the Blakeneys; she thought of the old house in Yorkshire, big, heavy, solid as her husband himself; full of carved panels, of cold, stately rooms; a home which Cyril delighted in. She dreaded the keen moorland air, the loneliness of the country; but they spent the winter there hunting and shooting; and she knew how Cyril longed for a boy to come after him.

"That will do, Stanley. What do you say?—That I told you to remind me of new dresses for Stranray Park. Yes. Anything will do for the mornings, and tea-gowns are forbidden; but I'll want six evening gowns. Oh! Cyrrie!"

Catch of nervousness in her voice; she met her husband on the stairs; put out a hand and touched his arm. Quietly he lifted it, held it out, and laid it lightly where her wedding ring gleamed behind a blaze of diamonds.

"Had a pleasant day?" he asked.

Denise recounted it almost eagerly. The big man listened, held her hand still as they came to the drawing-room.

"And you gave up Ranelagh—stayed talking to Esmé Carteret." She saw him smile finely. "Friends, Denise, to waste an afternoon. I was at Ranelagh and missed you. Dollie Maynard told me she left you just starting. I wondered where you were. Oh! here is Elsie."

They were a merry little party of four, taking an evening off until it was time for one or two balls.

Elsie St Clare, her husband, and a Baron de Reville.

Denise was a charming hostess; she knew how to order a dinner; there was no hint of the fluttering wings of trouble as the four talked and laughed.

"Stanley would not let me rest in peace to-night," she said, "she reminded me of Stranray in October. Cyril will not be there; it will be worse than ever. No smoking there after dinner," laughed Denise, "and it all seems standing up and taking the weather's temperature with our tongues; we are so bored we talk of nothing else. And H.R.H. likes the Stranray babies down to breakfast. One of them upset an egg over her one day, on purpose; they are outwardly mild, and inwardly demons. And when we are not out we work, because it looks domestic. I put three stitches in last time, because I saw eyes upon me. I shall never forget the day we found the three babies playing when we came in. Jinnie, the eldest, gravely smoking paper cigarettes. Just as state entry was made, she shrieked out:

"'That's when they're gone to bed; that's what we do. I saw over the bannisters. Now you're so loud, Nettie; and you, Tim, you say thank goodness.' But H.R.H. was quite nice about it; and only laughed and kissed them all.

"'I expect it's what you all do and say,' she said, and kissed Nettie again."

"I shall disport myself at Swords," Elsie St Clare laughed. "I couldn't stand the strain of behaving perfectly for a week. Prince Wilhelm goes to you at White Friars some time, doesn't he?"

"Next spring for the races," said Denise. "But she's a dear, and if you give her a chair to sleep in she bothers no one; the only thing which worries her is that Wilhelm will play the bridge game.

"'It hass my orphanage ruined,' she told me last time."

After dinner they played bridge. Denise forgot her fears a little, though her luck was against her; she could not hold a card.

"How I hate paying you, Cyrrie," she said, laughing, as she took gold from her purse.

"Women always hate the day of reckoning." Something in his quiet voice made her heart thump. "The game is full of excitement, but it must end—and your sex dislikes the ending."

The guests went on to a big dance; the Blakeneys were left alone; they were not going out.

Quite quietly Sir Cyril came across to his wife, stood looking at her.

"A lovely gown," he said. "But—do you need new jewels, Denise?"

His fingers, big, strong, deft, fell on the pink pearl, undid the fastening.

Denise turned pale, stood stammering, seeking excuse.

"Don't bother," he said smoothly. "I saw the boy give it you. You've been foolish there, Denise—foolish. Well, I'm off for months, and when I come back—"

"Yes?" she said, dry-lipped, or rather tried to say yes and merely made some sound.

"If we had had a child, Denise," he said, his head bent. "They make a difference—one makes allowances then."

"If we had—now," she said. "Now, Cyrrie!" her voice rang shrilly.

He laughed. "If we had—you might be thankful," he said. "Come, you look tired out. Go to bed."

"I have not been feeling well," she faltered.

If she was to be saved, something must be managed.

Esmé was still in her wrapper of silk and lace, when Lady Blakeney came to her next day. Came, white and excited, her eyes blazing, her face tense. For half an hour Esmé sat almost silent, listening to an outpouring of plot and plan. The weak, flighty woman developed undreamt-of powers of organization.

Esmé wanted money, freedom. Oh! it had often been done before. She flung out its simplicity. Away in some remote part of the Continent the child which was to come should be born as a Blakeney.

What was easier than a change of names?

"See, Esmé—I'll give you a thousand a year always. Honour! Think of it! Five hundred pounds every six months, and you and Bertie can be happy when he comes back. And I—it will save me. We'll go away together in the autumn; we are always together. We'll go without maids. Oh—do—do!"

Esmé flung up her pretty head.

"I'll do it," she said, "but I must have a doctor. I must not die."

"A doctor to attend Lady Blakeney. Why not? Strange servants, a strange place, who would know?" Denise remembered everything.

"Yet it is wonderful how people do know," said Esmé, shrewdly, half afraid now that she had agreed; wondering what might happen. Yet she looked round her flat with a little sigh of relief. She could live her merry, careless life, live it more easily than before, and she did not want a child. She hated children, hated their responsibility.

"Some day," said Esmé, "I won't mind; then there can be another."

May had given way to a dismal June. Cold winds and showers swept over the world. Flowers were dragged from grates and fires put in. Esmé had lighted hers; sat over it, as her husband came in; they were lunching out.

He hung over her, delighting in her soft beauty, crying out at her pale cheeks.

"You're tired, girlie; we're always out. And now that I must leave you alone you'll do much more."

She leant back against him, ruffling her cloud of fair hair.

"We're absolutely happy, aren't we, Bertie? I'll be here when you come. I can let the flat until the spring, and you must leave that stupid army and live here all summer in dear London."

He held her close, sat silent for a time.

"I was at Evie's yesterday," he said. "Eve Gresham's my cousin. I saw her boy."

"Horrid little things at that age," said Esmé, unsympathetically.

"It wasn't—it was fat and bonny; and Eve is so proud of it. If we had a sonny, Butterfly, you and I, I'd like him to be like Eve's."

Esmé sat astonished. Bertie wishing for a third in their lives. Bertie! knowing the difference it would make.

She jumped up, almost angrily. "If we had, we couldn't hunt, or do half what we do," she said. "And you've got me, Bertie. Do you want more?"

She began to cry suddenly, broke down, overwrought by her morning's plot, by this new idea of Carteret's.

Something, stronger for the moment than her selfish love of amusement, fought with her. If she gave up their mad scheme, told him now, he would not go to Africa; he would stay, watching her, guarding her. Esmé wavered.

"I looked at those emeralds too, yesterday," Bertie said; he was staring into the fire; had not noticed her agitation. "You know that queer old clasp. Fifty pounds. I couldn't manage it, girlie, for you."

"I wanted it," said Esmé, fretfully.

"A note from Lady Blakeney, madame."

Marie brought the letter up, wondering at its plump softness, feeling the wad which the notes made. The chauffeur had bidden her be careful; refused to give it to the porter of the flats.

"Oh!" Esmé opened it, her back to her husband. There were bank notes, crisp, delightful; she saw five of them; five for fifty pounds each. Denise was beginning the payment already.

"Milady Blakeney also wishes to know if Madame will use the car to drive to luncheon. It is at Madame's service until five," Marie said.

"Denise is very good to you," Carteret turned round. "You have a lot of friends, my Butterfly."

Esmé crushed the notes up. The impulse to tell was gone. She wanted money, comfort, ease; the chance was hers, and she would take it.

The luncheon party was a big one, given by Luke Holbrook, the wine merchant. He paid his cook a clerk's income, and she earned her salary elaborately. What her dishes lacked in taste they made up for in ornament; if a white sauce be merely smoothly flour-like, who shall grumble if it is flecked with truffles, cocks-combs and pistachio nuts. No gourmet enjoyed eating at the Holbrooks', but ordinary people who are impressed by magnificence talked in hushed tones of the cook.

The house was as heavily expensive as the meal; gold plate shone on the vast sideboard; orchids decorated the tables; one's feet sank into deep carpeting. Mrs Holbrook, a plumply foolish little woman who had married the big man obediently that he might have a wife who claimed the prefix of "honourable" on her letters, accepted the magnificence placidly. She had a shrewd idea that outward show helped the business, and that they were not as rich as they seemed to be.

The dining-room had been opened into the study so that it ran right across the house, and to increase the apparent size at the end wall was a huge mirror reflecting the room.

They lunched at small tables. Sylvia Holbrook knew how to divide her guests. Esmé found herself one of four with Jimmie Gore Helmsley, Sybil Chauntsey, a soft-hued debutante, and a dark young soldier vividly in love with the girl.

"Going to the Bellews? Lord! I'm weary of cream pies done up in colours." Jimmie waved a sweet away. "Going, Mrs Carteret?"

"Bertie has to go home." Esmé had eaten nothing; she was feeling sick and tired. "He doesn't like my going there."

"To Thames Cottage? Oh, how I'd love to go," Sybil Chauntsey broke in. "They have such fun there."

Her peach bloom deepened; the beauty of youth, which is as no other beauty, sparkled in her deep grey eyes.

The big dark man looked at her, his own eyes taking fire. These men delight in rosebuds, find an unflagging zest in seeing the tender petals unfold to their hot admiration.

"Easily managed," he said. "If Madame the mother permits."

Captain Knox, a mere no one, son of a hunting Irishman, flushed.

"It's not a nice house," he said. "I've heard of it. Don't go, Miss Chauntsey."

"Lila Navotsky will be there"—Jimmie turned to the girl, carelessly ignoring the man—"she'll dance. It will be rather a bright party. Prince Fritz of Grosse Holbein is going, Lady Deverelle, and Loftus Laking, the actor. We'll have a moonlight dance, all costumes home made."

Fresh from the country, doing her first season, the great names dazzled the child. Mother's friends were so dull; the peach-bloom flush deepened, the sweet eyes flashed for Jimmie, who had watched so many flushes, seen so many bright eyes flash into his. Sybil was very pretty, soft and fresh as fruit just ripe; sun-kissed, unpowdered, roundly contoured.

With a smile Esmé saw that the conqueror's glances were no longer for her. He was growing fascinated by Sybil. Even the best of women hate to lose an admirer; no one knew better than Gore Helmsley how they will suddenly put good resolves aside to keep the slipping fancy. How many are morally lost because they fear to lose.

Young Knox turned to talk to Esmé, his handsome face troubled. A mere ordinary young fellow, capable of ordinary love, cleanly bred, cleanly minded, with nothing to offer the girl but the life of a marching soldier's wife, and some day a house on the shores of a lake far away in the west.

"It's—it's very rowdy, isn't it?" he asked.

But Esmé was not thinking of him.

"Oh, sometimes not," she said absently, eating a forced nectarine; "depends on the party there. Now they're moving."

Up to a drawing-room of oppressive luxury; the Staffordshire groups, the Dresden shepherdesses seemed larger than other people's; the brocades gleamed in their richness, the flowers stood in Venetian glasses; the whole room seemed to shake its wealth in your face, and to glitter and shine with colour. Coffee came in Dresden cups set in gold holders; sugar candy peeped from a gilt basin studded with dull stones. The cigarettes had their name blazoned over them in diamonds.

Luke Holbrook came among his guests, big, kind, frankly vulgar, redeemed by his good-natured eyes. Openly proud of seeing a Duchess in his drawing-room, pointing out to her a pair of historical figures which stood on the mantel-shelf.

"Wonderful they tell me," he said. "I don't know, but I like size when I buy."

"Yes," said the Duchess, blandly, looking round the room. "Yes. If you must pay thousands better pay them for two feet of glaze and colour than for two inches, no doubt."

"That's it," he said gaily, "that's it. Of course, you've such heaps of the stuff at Blenkalle. But my boy's collection has to be gathered now."

Holbrook's pure wines gained many orders in his own house. He had stored away, kept for customers with palates, a few casks of port which was not branded and flavoured for the English taste, some good hock and claret. But the pure wines he made his millions off did not deserve their title.

Esmé, sipping Turkish coffee, saw Sybil Chauntsey come hurrying to her mother. The girl was fresh and sweet, heads turned as she passed.

"Oh, Mumsie, Captain Gore Helmsley has telephoned. Oh, Mumsie, they've asked me to the Bellews for Saturday to Monday. Oh, may I go?"

"But alone, Sybil," said her mother.

"Mrs Carteret will take me. I'll ask her. Oh, Mumsie. Prince Fritz of Grosse Holbein will be there, and Madame Navotsky, Lord Ralph Crellton, Lady Deverelle. Mumsie, I might be asked to Deverelle if I meet her."

Princes, countesses, dancers. Might not Sybil attract the attention of Lord Ralph, who would one day be a Marquis. "But, aren't there stories?" Mrs Chauntsey wavered.

Jimmie strolled across. "Mrs Bellew is so anxious for your daughter to go to her," he said. "It's rather an honour, they are generally full up, and there's a dance this time."

He omitted to remark that his reply down the telephone had been: "Who? I don't know the brat. Oh, send her along; I'll invite. Suppose you'd sulk and wouldn't manage the cotillon if I refused. Can't you let girls alone, Jimmie? Yes, I've got the address—I'll invite—bother her!"

Mrs Chauntsey wavered, gave way, turned to a stout lady who was anxiously waiting for the brougham she still clung to, and told her.

"I wouldn't let my girls walk past the garden wall," said Lady Adderley, grimly. "Sybil's a child, too."

Mrs Chauntsey grew doubtful again. This stout and dowdy woman held the keys of the dullest and most exclusive houses. And Sybil had once been asked to luncheon there on Sunday; but a Prince, and a future Marquis—one must give a girl her chance.

Esmé was going on to a tea-party. She sat down by the open window, looking out at the Park, a dull place now, its afternoon hour not yet upon it.

"Rather full here." Jimmie Gore Helmsley's dark face appeared close to her; he pulled up a chair and sat down. "Feel as if we're all Aunt Sallies being pelted with gold; the riches jump out and hit you in the face."

"He's kind," said Esmé, remembering her hock.

"Kind? Oh, yes! he can be! Appreciate," he muttered, "what I've done coming here—to meet you, eh? I've talked to Lady Susan and Lady Hebe Ploddy for ten minutes, and I've only just escaped from the horns of Lady Hebe's jersey cattle. They have been going out for ten years," said Jimmie, "and Mamma, her grace, still calls them 'my baby girls.' They are coming this way," he added, "with the pigs and cows in the leash of their minds. Are you off it—hipped?" he whispered softly, "you look pale."

Whispers had gained him many things in life; a sudden drop of voice, a change of tone, an intimacy as it were of sympathy. But Esmé scarcely noticed it. She was too carelessly selfish to dream of the inconveniences of a lover, even if she had not been fond of Bertie.

"Coming Saturday," he asked, "to the Bungalow?"

"Oh, I suppose so. I've promised that child. Where am I going to? To buy a toy which has taken my fancy. Yes, you may come with me."

Half an hour later one of the new crisp notes had gone for the emerald clasp, and the Ladies Susan and Hebe Ploddy, coming by chance into the shop, told all their friends that Captain Gore Helmsley had given it to that Mrs Carteret.

CHAPTER III

Esmé Carteret had chosen her own picture in the tableaux vivants at the Leigh-Dilneys. It was called Joy.

"I'm so happy," she had said merrily, "it will suit me."

The Leigh-Dilneys gave entertainments in the name of charity, and since charity is all-powerful, and the pheasants at Leigh Grange were as flies in summer, everyone who was anyone in London gasped for air in the big drawing-room.

Faint breaths of summer breeze eddying over scarlet geraniums and white marguerites were powerless to stir the heat generated by the crowd which packed itself in resignation on hired chairs and dreamt of getting away. Lady Delilah Leigh-Dilney looked as though she spent life trying to live down her name. A high-nosed, earnest woman, with an insatiable appetite for organized entertainment. Her bridge winnings went to support missions in distant China; an invitation to tea was certain to plunge the accepter into the dusty uncertainty of a bran pie at five shillings a dip, proceeds for something; or the obligatory buying of tickets for a vase or cushion which was too ugly ever to be used.

Electric fans, Lady Delilah said, were noisy, useless and merely fashionable. Her guests sweltered on hard chairs as an overheated stage manager scrabbled the blue curtains of the miniature stage to and fro and wished he had never seen a tableaux.

And Esmé was Joy. Merely herself, dressed in a cloud of rosy pink, her setting an ordinary room; her hands outstretched to, as it were, meet Life; her radiant face lighted by smiles; her burnished hair fluffed out softly.

"Yet not so much Joy as self-satisfaction," murmured a panting cynic as he finished applauding. "For true Joy is a simple thing—its smile of the eyes and not of the teeth."

Esmé had chosen the scene because she was really so happy. She seemed to have everything she wanted. Popular, young, helped by a dozen kindly friends, with Bertie as lover and husband satisfying every whim.

The audience fled from sandwiches and thin coffee to amuse themselves after self-sacrifice. Esmé, in her pink gown, had danced the night away at two balls.

She had not felt ill again; she put her secret fear away, hoping eagerly that she was mistaken. Went out next morning to shop. Was there not always something one wanted?

Joy! She had acted her part yesterday, flashed her dazzling smile at the world. To-day discontent walked with her on the hot pavement.

She had been contented, happy, in her little flat, childishly pleased with her new life, her pretty clothes, her gaieties. And now she wanted more. Electric motors glided by, silent, powerful; wealth which would not have missed the Carterets' yearly income for a day passed her on all sides.

A fat woman got out of a car; the Pekingese dog she carried had cost two hundred pounds.

"Oh! Mrs Carteret!" Mrs Holbrook held out a fat hand. "Hot, isn't it? I'm just going in to Benhusan's here. This necklace Luke gave me yesterday has a bad clasp. So dangerous! I want a pendant for it too. Come in and advise me—do!"

Into the shop with its sombre splendour. Background to pearl and ruby, to diamond and opal and sapphire and emerald.

These spread before this merchant's wife, dazzling toys of pink and blue and sparkling white.

Esmé wanted them. Mere youth ceased to content her. She could not buy even one of these things. She must look and long.

"This one is two hundred guineas, madam."

"Oh! Luke said I might go to that. Mrs Carteret, do advise me. This pearl, the pear shaped; or the circle of opals—or what do you think of the sapphires? I am so stupid."

Sapphires would not go with the pearl and diamond necklace. Esmé's slim fingers picked up the pearl pendant, held it longingly.

It was the only possible thing, and even then not quite right, but it would do, she said.

"You've such perfect taste, child. Luke always says so. So glad I met you. Well, see you soon again—to-morrow. We've a large party."

Men and women buying lovely—perhaps unneeded—jewels, spending hundreds, thousands, that they might see someone turn to look at their adornments. A millionaire American grumbled over the merits of pearls spread on purple velvet.

He wanted something extra. "Get these anywhere. Mrs Cyrus J. Markly was going to Court. He'd promised she should have a string to knock creation. No, these wouldn't do."

Hurried calling on heads of departments, rooting into hidden safes. Fresh glistening treasures laid out.

Mr Markly might trust Benhusan's. The rope with its diamond links and clasps should be magnificent. He might leave it in their hands. They would ransack London for perfect pearls.

With a little gasp of impatience Esmé Carteret went out.

She wanted money. Mere comfort was nothing to her to-day.

Furs are neglected in summer, but Esmé strolled into the great Bond Street store. She was sending a coat for alteration and storage.

Denise Blakeney was there, a stole of black fox spread before her.

"Summer prices, my lady. See, a rare bargain."

"And out of fashion by September or October; but it is good." Denise held up the soft fur. "Oh! you, Esmé! See, shall I have it? These things are always useful."

Esmé stroked the supple softness of the furs, held the wrap longingly.

"Twenty pounds off our winter prices, madam. And perfection. Skins such as one seldom sees. The price a mere bagatelle—seventy guineas."

"Oh! put it with my other things then. Store it. Are you bargain-hunting, Es?"

"No—I have no money." Esmé looked almost sullenly at the stole which Denise did not want and bought so carelessly. "No, I cannot bargain-hunt. I came to see about my one coat."

"What is it, my Joy? You are out of spirits to-day. You looked so lovely yesterday, dear."

Lady Blakeney touched Esmé's arm affectionately.

"Tired of genteel poverty, Denise. I paddle on the edge of the world's sea, where you people swim. Yes—we'll meet at the Holbrooks' lunch. Will their new gold plate have diamond crests on it? Good-bye."

Left alone again in the fur shop, envying, longing for the treasures there.

Out into the crowded streets. A flower-shop caught her eyes. One sheaf of roses and orchids, pale cream and scarlet and mauve, made her stop and long. Denise could take these home if she wanted them.

Esmé went in, paid five shillings for a spray of carnations.

"Those orchids and roses? Oh! they were ten guineas. Mr Benhusan had just bought them for his table that evening."

So on again with this new discontent hurting her. She went on to another shop; saw a painted, loud-voiced girl buying silk lingerie, taking models carelessly, without thought of price. Her dog, a pathetic-looking white poodle, had on a gold collar set with jewels. The girl struck him once, roughly, across the nose, making him howl.

"Straighten him up," she said carelessly. "There, that's all. You know the address. Enter the lot; send 'em with the other things."

Esmé knew the girl by sight; had seen her dancing at the Olympic. She knew, too, who would pay for those cobwebby things of silk and real lace.

The spirit of discontent held Esmé Carteret with his cruel claws, rending her, hurting her mentally.

She was Joy no longer. Her little flat, her merry, careless life, could not content her.

Her mood led her to her dressmaker's to look at model gowns, and on to Jay's and Fenwick's. Discontent urging her to look at rich things which she could not buy; the blended beauty of Venetian glass, jewels, laces, silks, all seemed to come before her with a new meaning.

And then the sudden fear; stopping as if a blow had been struck at her. She was not safe; hope was not realization. The flat and the life she grumbled at might—would—pass to something smaller. To a house in a cheaper district, to money spent on cabs and dinners going to keep the child she dreaded.

Esmé hurried on, faster and faster, as if she would escape the fears which followed her. She wheeled, panting, into Oxford Street; turned from its crush and flurry, and went again down Bond Street, her colour high as she raced on.

"Dear lady, is it a walking race or a wager?" Esmé cannoned into Gore Helmsley. He stopped her, holding her hand impressively.

A handsome man, if sloe-black eyes and high colour constituted good looks. Women admired him. Men shrugged their shoulders impatiently.

"Neither. I was running away from my own thoughts."

"Ah!" He drew a soft breath. When women hurried to escape their thoughts Gore Helmsley thought he could guess at the meaning.

"I feel lost to-day." Esmé was glad to find a friend to speak to. "Poor, an outcast amid the wealth of London."

"Joy," he said caressingly, "looked yesterday as though the world denied her nothing."

"A week ago she would have said so. To-day—" Esmé frowned.

The dark man used his own dictionary. He had grown to admire this dazzling woman. Discontent on married lips generally meant the fruit grew weary of its tree and would come lightly to the hand stretched to pick it.

"Lunch with me," he said. "I can break a dull engagement. To-morrow we shall endeavour to assail eight courses at the Holbrooks. To-day we might try the Berkeley, or the Carlton, or the Ritz."

Esmé had promised to meet Bertie at his club; the club was dull; she wanted to play at being rich to-day, to look enviously at the people who spent money.

"The Ritz," she said. "If you'll tempt me with quails and asparagus. And if you can get a table."

Jimmie was not given to extravagance, but this was worth it.

They strolled across seething Piccadilly, with its riot of noise and traffic; they went into the big hotel.

An ordered luncheon takes time. They sat in the hall waiting, watching the tide of wealth sweep in. The glass doors swung and flashed as motors and taxis brought the luncheon-goers to their destination.

Jimmie knew everyone.

"Coraline de Vine." He nodded at the girl whom Esmé had seen buying. "And Trent. He says he does not know what his income is. People say he may marry her—he's infatuated. Did you see her new car? It cost two thousand. I saw him buying it for her. That emerald she's wearing is the celebrated Cenci stone. He got it at Christie's for her last week—outbid everyone."

Thousands—thousands. Esmé's eyes glittered hungrily. She opened her pretty mouth as if she were thirsty for all this gold, as if she would bathe herself in it, drink it if she could.

"And see Lord Ellis and the bride. She was no one—his parson's daughter. She has probably spent more on that frock than papa has for half a year's income."

A big, rather cunning-looking girl, healthy and young.

"Mamma wanted to send the two children up to me this week," she said, as she paused near Esmé. "I said it was absurd, in the season. They can slip up in July before we shut up the house. Doris wants to see a dentist, mamma says; they are so expensive up here. I have discouraged her; the man at home is much cheaper."

Already anxious to keep her prize money to herself. Not to share it with her sisters. Later, when they grew up, she would give them a chance, not now. Already a grande dame, spending only where it pleased her.

Wealth everywhere, and with Esmé this new discontent.

The table next to theirs was half smothered in orchids. The American millionaire was giving a luncheon party. A duchess honoured him, a slender, dark little lady, shrugging mental shoulders at the ostentation. Lady Lila Gore, heavily beautiful, was one of the party. The sallow master of millions devoured her with his shrewd, sunken eyes. This splendid pink-and-white piece of true English beauty made his own thin, vivacious wife nothing to him.

He had bought Mrs Markly a rope of pearls that she might shine at the Court, but he was prepared to pay ten times their price for a smile from the big blonde Englishwoman, who knew it, and considered the question.

The quails were tasteless to Esmé. She could not eat. The fear returned as she felt a distaste for her food, as she refused the ice which she had specially ordered.

She grew restless, tired of Jimmie Helmsley's caressing manner, of the undercurrent of meaning in his voice.

"I shall see you to-morrow at Luke's," he said. "You are looking pale, fair lady. What is it? Can I help? You know I'd do anything for you."

"I've not been well," she said irritably. "We're so far out. The flat's so poky and stuffy. Oh! I shall be all right in a day or two."

She would be. Hope spread his wings again.

She telephoned to Bertie and met him for tea.

For a few hours she was content again. The flat looked its prettiest. Her flowers were lovely. Denise Blakeney had sent her a sheaf of roses; their fragrance filled the air. Marie had put them in the vases.

Esmé tried to love it all, to realize that in her way she wanted nothing. She had been so happy with Bertie in their careless life.

She sat on the arm of his chair. He was allowed one big one in the flat. She laughed as he did accounts.

"Butterfly, we spend every penny we have got, and a little more besides." He looked up into her radiant face. "We seem—we seem to buy a lot of things, Es."

"Not half as many things as we ought to." She put her cheek to his. "We want all new chair coverings, Bert, and I got the old ones cleaned."

"Oh! model of economy," he said gravely.

"And I bought a new hat instead. I should have to have got the hat in any case, you see. And if I do spend a little, am I not worth it, boy?"

With the fragrance of her hair so close to him, with her soft cheek against his own, could he say or think so? He was losing time up there, rusting when he ought to have been with his regiment, all for Esmé's sake, because she loved London. But if it made her happy it was enough.

He told her so, holding her closely. Told her how everyone loved her; poured out the flattery she was never tired of.

"We can't do anything for these people; they are content to see you. Your face is repayment," he said. "No one would bother about me without you, sweetheart. You were born for society."

"Yes." Esmé's voice grew strained. If Fate had sent her Arthur Ellis and his coal mines! How she would have loved to act hostess in the big town house, in Ellis Court, and Dungredy Lodge; she put the thought away, almost angrily, for she loved Bertie.

Yet, clinging to him, his arms about her, his lips on hers, she missed something. Was she growing older that kisses failed to thrill?

"I am so tired, Bertie," she said suddenly. "I have not been well all day."

Fear and discontent swept love aside. In a moment she was querulous, irritable, all the evening's happiness gone again.

It was time to dress. People were coming to dine; there would be new salad; iced rice cunningly flavoured. But the thought of food made Esmé wretched.

"I want to be happy. Why cannot the Fates let me be?" she almost whimpered to her glass.

Brilliantly pretty, slim, young, she wanted to lose nothing.

"If I were happy again I would not fret for all the impossible things as I did to-day," she said aloud, with the idea—too common with humanity—that one may strike a bargain with Fate.

CHAPTER IV

Once a mere cottage, now a long ornate bungalow jutting into angles, full of unexpected rooms, the Bellews' river-side house is more luxurious than many big structures of brick and mortar.

"We run down to picnic here," but Belle Bellew knew that picnicking without everything out of season, and a chef of quality, could not appeal to the people she gathered about her. The picnic element was kept up by breakfast-tables laid under trees, things deserted and unused—man likes his breakfast free from fly and midge. The ideal, talked of in the gleam of electric light, is fresh air, the plash of old Father Thames, morning sunshine; the real is that we prefer tempered light, copper heaters, and a roof.

The long low house jutted out in two wings, all the windows opening onto a covered veranda.

Dull people turned their heads aside when they rowed past on Sunday evenings, for the flash of lights, the sound of raised voices, could be seen and heard from the river.

The chairs were wicker, but the rugs on the stained floors Persian. It was wealth, less ostentatious than the Holbrooks'; light, frothy, merry, careless wealth, with pleasure for its high priest.

Jimmie Gore Helmsley motored Denise and Sybil down; the place seemed empty when they came, but looking closer one could see groups here and there, see flutter of light dresses; hear tinkle of light laughter, bass of man's deeper note.

A thin, svelte woman, green-eyed, ferret-faced, came out of the open door. Mousie Cavendish said she found her ugliness more powerful than other women's beauty. A bitter-tongued little creature, stirring every surface maliciously to point out something foul below it. But clever, moderately rich, perfectly gowned; gaining what income she lacked through her too keen power of observation.

You sat with her, sweetly pulling some reputation to pieces; you left full-fed with evil spice; and then you shivered. Were not the same thin fingers pulling out your secrets now, those secrets you foolishly hinted at?

"Ah! pretty Esmé!" Mousie blew a kiss from her reddened lips. "You here! Where's Mrs Bellew, Miss Chauntsey? We may see her at dinner-time; we may not, if she has taken a tea-basket to the backwater close by." Mousie laughed at Sybil. "Does your young mind run upon hostesses who wait to receive their guests? You will not find them here, my child. Tell the men to get tea, Jimmie; we'll have it here."

The veranda was a series of outdoor rooms, wooden partitions, rose-grown, dividing it.

Sybil's grey eyes were sparkling; this was so different from tea in decorous drawing-rooms, from a stately week-end spent at Ascot with her mother.

"Tea?" Mousie turned to the footman. "Cream sandwiches and fruit. This riverside hotel," said Mrs Cavendish, "is an excellent one. Why, fair Esmé, you look pallid. And what pretty emeralds, chérie. Oh! the rewards of beauty!"

The keen little eyes were frankly malicious, frankly open as to what they meant.

Esmé flushed a little; she saw the green eyes flash on at Gore Helmsley. Esmé was almost crudely virtuous; the hint offended.

Servants were preparing the lawn for the night's revel. Temporary lights were being hung on strings, the turf swept and rolled; a great mirror was set up.

"For the cotillon?" Esmé asked.

"For the cotillon. We begin at nine. So that at twelve the cock shall crow and we shall all—not go to bed."

"More people coming. Mrs Bellew," said Sybil, "was not out; she is coming into the garden now."

"Ah! tiens, my child! it was my kindness to say that she was out, knowing it was the hour of electricity. Once the knell of forty sounds we must have our faces recharged daily. The Prince is coming—look ye!"

Prince Fritz—young, fat, extremely volatile, a thorn in the side of his august mother and his wife—came tripping across the grass. He talked English with a strong accent, and he bemoaned the future when he must go home.

Yet, though Belle Bellew might box his ears later in a romp, she must bob to him now discreetly as she greeted him.

Prince Fritz boomed out content and delight. "There is no place such as this river house," he said, "none, fair lady." Then he looked round for the dancer, who was his special attraction.

"Don't be alarmed, sir—she arrives," mocked Mousie from her balcony, "she arrives. The revenues can continue to be squandered, and a nice little woman's heart torn by the snapshots she sees of you in the picture papers."

Prince Fritz grinned equably; he was not dignified.

"Like to see the river?" Gore Helmsley asked Sybil.

The girl was charming in her simple dress. Fresh and sweet and unspoiled, eagerly delighted with everything.

But down by gliding, stately Thames, Jimmie was fatherly. She must be careful here, keep quiet; a good deal of romping went on—and girls could not behave as married women could.

"I'm your godfather here, you see." His dark face came close to hers, showing the crinkles round his eyes, the hard lines near his mouth; but he was at the age girls delight to worship. Someone who knows the mysteries they only dream of; someone so different to honest, pleasant boys, who thought more of sport than their companions.

Friendship! It was Jimmie Gore Helmsley's deadly weapon; there was nothing to frighten the maid—he was only a pal—a pal to win her confidences, to tell her how sweet she looked, to point out the perfect smoothness of her fresh young skin, to find beauty in the lights in her hair, the curves of her dimpled neck; to take her about discreetly in town, to walk and talk with her at country houses; to listen, with a face set a little wistfully, about some boy who adored her. Frank or Tom was a good sort, a brick; youth went to youth; heaven send she would be happy, and—appreciated—that the blind boy would see plainly the perfection of the treasure he was winning. Ah! if someone who could see could win it!

After this, next day, meeting her young lover, mademoiselle the debutante would fret and sulk because Frank or Tom talked of his last score at cricket, or his great day with the Team, instead of worshipping her beauty.

And, later, the confidences would grow fewer; would come a day when the boy's image faded; when a fool's heart beat for the world-worn man who set her up as goddess, and then.... There were broken hearts and lives in high society which could tell the rest. There were women, married now, who shivered angrily at one hidden corner in their lives.

This nut-brown maid, with her grey eyes and cloud of dusky hair, appealed to Jimmie. He came with a careless zest to each new conquest. But first there was bright, flashing Esmé, paid court to now for half a year. The girl attracted vaguely as yet. Esmé's careless coldness had made him the more determined, but to-day he felt more confident.

Dinner was in two rooms, divided by an arch; the clatter of voices, the flash of lights at the little tables, made it like a restaurant.

Belle Bellew, slim and tall, perfectly preserved, sorted her more important guests, took scant trouble with the others.

The drawing-room almost dazzled Sybil. Lights glowed through rose petals; jewels flashed on women's dresses and necks and arms; silks shimmered; chiffons floated round cleverly-outlined forms.

The finger-bowls at dinner all held stephanotis flowers; the cloying, heavy scent floated through the hot air.

Navotsky, the dancer, was in black, dead and unrelieved, clinging to her sensuous limbs, outlining her white skin, and when she moved the sombre draperies parted, with flash of orange and silver underneath, sheath fitting, brilliantly gorgeous. A great band of diamonds outlined her small, sleek head.

"More taxes on Grosse Holbein," murmured Mousie Cavendish. "Oh, what a joy to dine where there is a cook and not a preparer of defunct meats."

There was no ostentation here, but a cunning which reached perfection.

"Laying up for ourselves water-drinking in Homburg," remarked Jimmie, as he finished fish smothered in a sauce compound of many things, and went on with a soufflet of asparagus. "Well, it's worth it. Look at our Fritz, he's longing for stewed pork and plums; the butler tells me he has cold galantine and bread and pickles left in his room at night to assuage his hunger."

As the blue smoke haze drifted, and black coffee and liqueurs came to interfere with digestion, Jimmie had dropped his voice to the note intime which women recognize. He half whispered to Esmé; his admiration for her was more open than usual.

Sybil talked to a clean-shaven youth who found her very dull, and almost showed it. Who stared when she chattered and admired, and seemed to think it provincial not to take all the world for granted.

"Think her lovely, that dancer woman. All right in her way, I imagine. What a lovely ice, did you say? S'pose it's all right. Nevah eat 'em myself."

Lord Francis Lennon got up with a sigh of relief to confide to the fair lady of forty who amused him that he hated "dinin' in the nursery."

Outside a new moon lay silver on her azure, star-spangled bed. The lights in the garden were making a glittering circle.

Mr Bellew, a sleek, dark man, who was occasionally recognized by his own guests as their host, rang a bell and read out some rules.

Twenty minutes were given, and then every guest must have assumed a character, and only used what materials they could find in the heap prepared in the hall. Prizes to be given.

"Think us fools," said Mousie, pulling a green overdress from under a cushion and becoming Undine.

But the picnic had begun. Men pinned on newspapers, rushed for cardboard to cut out armour, rifled the linen cupboards for tablecloths. Journals, sandwich men, knights, ghosts, came laughing to the garden, odd ends fluttering, pins proving unstable friends.

Women got at the heap of odds and ends—gauzes, tinsel crowns, veils and lace, tying great sashes over their evening dresses, shrieking for inspiration.

With a ripple of laughter, Lady Deverelle, wife of the tenth earl, flung off her long green skirt, and stood forth audaciously in a froth of green silk reaching not far below her knees; put a paper crown on her head, and called herself a fairy.

Echo of their laughter drifted to the river. Boats massed outside as people peered through the shrubs.

"Those dreadful people at the Bungalow," said Lady Susan Ploddy to her sister; they were on a houseboat a short way off.

Into the circle of light ran a crowd of laughing people, snatching at enjoyment. Out on the velvet turf, dancing to the music of hidden musicians.

"Idyllic but exhausting," said Undine to her partner. "There will be more fun to-night in looking on."

The dance would not last long; it was only an excuse for a romp.

Prince Fritz, his stout person hung about with dusters, calling himself a cheque, held the dancer in his arms, whirling her round. Navotsky shrugged her shoulders. "She was Night," she said, and merely put on a black veil, floating from her crown of diamond stars.

The great mirror reflected them all; they danced the cotillon, taking up handsome presents carelessly; scarfs, pins, studs, a hundred pounds' worth of toys which no one wanted.

Sybil Chauntsey had picked up roses, pinned them in her hair and in her dress, wrote on her card "Summer." She was left alone as they danced, until some man, seeing her, whirled her noisily round and laughed and dropped her. The girl felt that she was not one of this romping crowd; her pleasure began to taste bitterly to her.

Esmé, forgetting her troubles, had tied a sash round her dress, twisted some stuff into a head-dress, and called herself a Spaniard. The yellow gown and scarlet sash suited her.

She only did one figure in the cotillon; she liked looking on. Then they formed up for the prize before the judges.

Lady Deverelle, in her green underskirt, took first easily. They gave the Prince the next.

The musicians thrummed, but the dancers were weary of fooling; shadow-like, they melted away into nooks and summer-houses, until from every corner echoed the hushed treble of women's voices, the hushed depth of men's.

"See, I have marked down my corner." Captain Gore Helmsley tore off a shield of paper off his arm and took Esmé's arm. She felt his fingers press on her warm, soft flesh. "See here." He had the key of a small outdoor room, a glorified summer-house hung about with fragrant roses, furnished with lounge chairs and soft cushions. Darkness wrapped it, but with a click Esmé turned on a shaded light, giving a faint glimmer through the gloom.

Gore Helmsley pulled the chairs to one side, so that to curious passers-by they were in shade. The dim glow fell on Esmé, on her shining hair, her brilliantly pretty face.

"So, it was good of you to come down," Jimmie said. "I was afraid you wouldn't. And once here—" he said.

"And here," Esmé's voice, interrupting, was not lowered. "Here we can be amused for two days—no more."

"No more," he whispered.

His hands pressing hers, his voice was more eloquent than words.

"No more? After all these months, Esmé," he said. "Here, where no one watches, where it is so easy to arrange—where—"

Esmé Carteret sat up in her chair, impatient, annoyed; she interrupted again sharply.

"Where people make awful fools of themselves," she said.

Gore Helmsley moved nearer to her. "Sweet fools," he muttered, and stooping suddenly, he kissed her.

Esmé got up; she neither started nor showed emotion. "My husband said no woman could trust you," she said coldly. "Come—I am going in."

Captain Gore Helmsley stammered as he realized that Esmé would never be pieced into the puzzle of his loves. Then, being extremely offended, he endeavoured to hide it, and Esmé's faint malicious smile made him her enemy for life.

Except for the kiss he had not committed himself in any way, and except for her one sharp speech Esmé had said nothing to show resentment; they talked carelessly going in. He knew that he had thrown and lost.

Sybil Chauntsey, overlooked in the prize-giving, while she had been involved in a romping dance, came towards the veranda. The partitions each held its Jack and Jill; she could hear rustles, whispers, low-toned laughter.

From one Prince Fritz's guttural was unmistakable, as indiscreetly he muttered his adoration.

"Mein angel," said Prince Fritz, as Sybil passed. "You shall haf the pearl—so that I clasp it on your neck."

A big, squarely-built man stood at the lighted doorway; Sybil had met him in London—Lord Innistenne. He whistled as he saw her.

"What the—why are you here, Miss Chauntsey?" he said slowly.

"I came to see it all." Sybil's voice brightened. "It was fun, wasn't it? I made mother let me come."

She was panting, her rose crown crooked, one of her chiffon sleeves torn.

"Fun, for grown-ups," he said shortly. "I thought your mother"—he paused—"did not know the Bellews."

"Captain Gore Helmsley got them to ask me. He wanted me to come down to see it all."

Innistenne frowned. "Look here," he said. "Let me motor you up to town to-morrow. Leave this place."

Sybil shook her head, doubtfully. She was not enjoying herself.

There was no solemn meeting at breakfast at the Bellews. People who liked to come down strolled in to a meal which was kept hot until twelve. Others breakfasted outside their bedrooms; pretty women in silken wrappers might send invitations to a friend to join them in the rose-covered partitions outside their windows.

The fresh air of a June day came whispering across the water and the shaven lawns. Later it would be very hot, but as yet the coolness of the dew was on the grass; the sun beamed softly gold through fresh green leaves.

Esmé smiled a little, for, coming into the breakfast-room, she saw that Jimmie Gore Helmsley meant to have no more to do with her. He did not come to her table, get her fruit, hang over her lovingly. Sybil, fresh as the day itself, was listening to his caressing voice, tasting her first plate of delicately-flavoured flattery.

Feminine eighteen comes gaily to its breakfast. It has had no weary thoughts to trouble it, no fading skin to cream and powder.

What was she going to do to-day? Oh! anything and everything; boat, play tennis, idle, watch the people.

The silver sweetness of the morning called to Sybil. She would have breakfast out, under the trees. She saw tables ready there. Cool damp of dew, a gentle cloud of midges and flies did not deter Sybil. Cold tea and a narrow choice of breakfast, brought by a languid footman, were enough for her. Gore Helmsley, with the morning peevishness which comes when we are forty, brushed mosquitoes from his hair, stabbed irritably at congealing bacon and leathery egg, listened with tempered enthusiasm to Sybil's picture of ideal life.

Out in the woods somewhere, breakfast and lunch and dinner with the lovely trees overhead, and the lovely grass at one's feet, and no stuffy rooms and cold roast beef, but eggs and fish and tea, she chattered.

Captain Gore Helmsley said, "With pneumonia sauce," and said it irritably. He sat watching the girl's fresh face, the sparkle of her grey eyes, and presently deemed her worth even outdoor breakfast.

As cigarettes banished midges his voice grew soft again; he knew how to listen, how to make youth talk of itself. He planned the day out; he bought a box of sweets for Sybil to crunch.

The girl was excited, pleased by her conquest. She had seen Jimmie in attendance on well-known beauties; had never dreamt the black eyes would look at her with open admiration; or that the man would talk of lunches together, of a drive somewhere in his car, of singling her out.

She thanked him warmly, with flushed cheeks which made her lovely. "Take her to Brighton some day, down to the sea, for a picnic! Oh, how lovely, and how good of him; he had so much to do, so many friends."

Lord Innistenne, strolling across the gardens, saw the two under the big beech tree—saw Esmé reading alone on the veranda.

He walked down to the river, where two long chairs were hidden in a nook of shrubs, a slight, brown-eyed woman sitting in one, sitting palpably waiting.

"Joan, would you do good works?" he said. "Let this day slip for it."

She looked up at him quickly.

"Come with me, use persuasion, get the Chauntsey child back to London to her mother. I'll drive her up."

Joan Blacker looked at the river, seen dimly through the trees, at the wall of shrubs about the hidden nook. They had not many days like this. Then wistfully she looked at Innistenne's strong, rugged face—a look with a shade of fear in it, the fear which must haunt each woman who has sold her birthright, purity, that what is so much to her may be mere pastime to the man she loves. Joan Blacker might have been moderately unhappy, moderately lonely all her life, if Innistenne had not come across her path.

"The dark Adonis is fitting arrows to his bow," said Innistenne. "He delights in the bringing to earth of foolish, half-fledged birdlings. We shall be back early, Joan. Come—help me."

She had counted on her morning; on a few hours of the talking women delight in, of tender memories referred to, of future plans discussed. But without a word she got up.

"She is very pretty, Fred." Joan Blacker stopped once, looked up at Innistenne.

"She may be," he said carelessly. "There is a brick wall named Joan built across my vision, you see."

It was her reward—she was satisfied.

Jimmie Gore Helmsley's black eyes did not smile at a pair of intruders. He was taking Sybil out in a punt after lunch, with a tea-basket for a picnic. He strolled off now with a last low word to Sybil. "Come to the rose garden. I'll wait there. Bother these people!"

Joan Blacker did not fail in her good deed. She said some simple things to Sybil—told her quietly that the Bungalow was not fit for her; that if her mother realized, or heard, it might stop liberty for evermore.

"To go back to London," cried Sybil, "to the house in Lancaster Gate, to the dreariness of a dull dinner there. Navotsky was to dance to-night. Besides—Mrs Bellew—"

"The servants may tell her that there is a vacant room," said Joan, equably, "otherwise she will not know. And for to-night—we'll take you out somewhere if you like, in London. I warn you your mother does not understand."

When Gore Helmsley, attractive to those who admired him in his flannels, strolled back to look for a Sybil who came not, he only saw the dust of a motor on the road at the back of the house.

"Miss Chauntsey has gone back to London," said Esmé. "Her mother, I think, telephoned."

Gore Helmsley nodded carelessly. But Esmé, looking drearily out across the gardens, trying hard not to think, had made a bitter enemy.

She was rung up by Denise Blakeney later.

"Yes. Cyril leaves next week. I tell you, Esmé, I am afraid—afraid of when he comes back. Be careful of cross lines. No one will know. Dismiss your maid at once. Come to me here and write to her if you think it best."

Esmé hung up the receiver with a sigh. The great scheme was becoming greater, looming before her. But money and liberty and an allowance made it all feasible.

A week later Bertie Carteret sailed for South Africa, and on the same day a broad, quiet man left London for a year's shooting. Both thought of their wives as the big steamers began to churn up the water. But one with wistful longing, looking back at a figure on the quay which waved and waved until it was lost, a blur among other figures; and one whose mouth set grimly as he recalled a good-bye in a luxurious dining-room, arms which he had put away from his neck, and an unsteady voice which had hinted of some confession which he would not hear.

"Later," said Cyril Blakeney, "later." But his eyes were full of bitter hatred for the thing which, for his name's sake, he meant to do.

Some hours after the steamer had left port Marie Leroy was rung up on the telephone.

She stood listening, a curious expression on her dark face, her lips murmuring, "Oui, madame. Oui, certainement, madame."

Esmé was dismissing her, was going away with Lady Blakeney, wanted no maid. Marie was to receive extra wages, a superfine character; to pack Madame's things.

Marie walked away, her slim brown fingers pressed together.

"And—what means it?" said the Frenchwoman, softly. "That would I like to know. What means it?"

CHAPTER V

Winter came softly across Italy. There were hours of sunlight, breaths of wind which carried no chill dampness. Here on a sheltered slope, its back to the hills, its windows overlooking stretches of olive groves, a villa had been built. Once a country home for a prince, now patched and painted when a strange tenant took it.

The Morning Post had announced that "Lady Blakeney and Mrs Carteret had left London together for the Continent. Lady Blakeney, having found the strain of the season too much this year, was going to rest by the sea in some quiet part of France." Later, a rumour crept out; there was a reason for the delicacy. After all these years! Denise had just whispered a hint before she left. She was coming home in the spring.

The difficulty of losing oneself was soon forced upon the two wanderers. They had gone without maids; they packed abominably; they were helpless without the attendance they had been used to.

Denise remarked tearfully that she had never put on her own stockings except once, when she was paddling. Esmé, less helpless, helped her, but was querulous, full of fancies, ill-pleased with life.

After a time Denise changed her trim dresses for loose coats and skirts. The two moved to Dinard, met a few friends there. Observant people looked shrewdly significant.

It was time then! When? they asked. Oh! some time in the spring. March, Denise said. Yes, it was quite true.

They wrote to friends at home.

Then came a time when they tried to vanish, went to small towns and fretted in dull hotels.

Denise had made inquiries, found out where there was a good doctor. One day the two came to Riccione, a little Italian town, built on a gentle slope, spying at the distant mountains, able, with powerful glasses, to catch a shimmer of the distant sea.

Luigi Frascatelle, slight and dark, a man immersed in his art of curing, was startled by the visit of two English ladies.

They were taking the Villa Picciani, ten miles out; they were coming in December. One asked for advice, for attendance if necessary.

Frascatelle's dark eyes read the sign words of wealth; the woman who did spokeswoman was brown, slender, distinguished, but wrapped in a long cloak; the other dazzlingly fair, younger, black circles under her brilliant blue eyes.

"Would the signor tell them where to procure servants—men and women? They would hire a motor. Was there a nurse, a trained one, available for some time? Lady Blakeney was nervous."

"Lady Blakeney!" Luigi looked at the fair girl curiously. "But, Madame," he spoke French, "will not Madame return for the event to England—to the great physicians there—to her own home?"

"Sir Cyril is away; her ladyship is lonely in England; has a fancy for sunshine and for solitude."

The doctor bowed. "Ah! at such times there are ever fancies, better indulged. Ah! si, always better indulged."

The ladies were coming in December. He would call as required; there were worthy servants to be found. There was one, English.

"No," the elder woman shot out, "all Italian. We want your Italian cooking, Es—Denise and I. We want omelettes, macaroni, to amuse us in our solitude."

"But, sapristi! a strange amusement," said the doctor to himself.

"You will get us reliable servants, signor?" Denise asked.

"Che lo sa," said Luigi, absently. "Ah! yes, Madame, certainly."

"It is so kind of you," Denise went on graciously, "so very kind and good, signor."

He kept her back, he pressed his slim, strong fingers together.

"Madame, is it wise for your friend to be out here alone? She does not look strong; she is surely hysterical, nervous."

"It is her fancy, signor. I have left England to be with her and indulge it."

"The devotion of a friend," said Luigi. "And—Monsieur Sir Blakenee—is he satisfied?"

"He is abroad, shooting. Miladi has written, trusts he may meet her in England in time. We, will return before the event; but it is well to be prepared, to know of help if it is needed."

"That's all over," said Denise, coming out. "Why, child, don't look so white."

Denise had written to her husband, her letter was making its way up to a camping-ground under huge mountains, where Sir Cyril was shooting. It told her news; named March as the date; prayed him to meet her in London. Went on to talk simply of having been a fool, no more, a fool, and of how she had loved him before he went. But now she had left her old life, was travelling with Esmé Carteret, enjoying herself as well as health would permit. The past was the past; in the future an heir to his name might make Cyrrie happier. She tried to tell before he left, but she was not sure then.

A shallow woman, scheming for her own ends, she did not see the man's face as he read the letter. Opening it carelessly, sitting stricken, staring at it; his strong face stirred, the harsh lines slipping from it.

"Poor Denise," he said. "It was that she wanted to tell. Oh! poor old Denise—after all these years. The letter's dated Florence; she says to write to England as they're moving about. Poor old Denise!" he went on, and looked into the fire. "Perhaps she was only a fool. But the mother of my child," said Sir Cyril, simply, "is my wife for evermore."

His man, one he had had for years, was making a stew with skill.

"Reynolds," he shot out, "Reynolds! We trek for the coast to-morrow. Her ladyship wants me, Reynolds. There's an heir coming."

Reynolds gave polite congratulation.

"Comin' just in time," muttered the valet to the stew. "Just in time, milady."

Denise had no thought of how her husband's big nature would be moved. How, with old tender thoughts crowding back on him, he sat in the shadows and made plans, plans which included her, Denise, his wife. He'd take her on that yachting trip she'd hankered for; she'd want a change in the spring; they'd have a new honeymoon off her pet coast of Italy. But could they leave the child? The mystery of birth comes freshly to each man who calls himself Father for the first time. The child—He'd be in the old nurseries at White Friars, behind the wooden bars. He'd be a sturdy boy, strong, bright-eyed, no puling weakling, but a true Blakeney, clean-limbed and big. Soon he'd come toddling out in the gardens, a little creature wondering at big life; a mite who had to be taught the names of simple things. And later still he would ride and shoot and fish and swim, and learn that the Blakeneys were men of clean lives, and that he must follow the tracks of his fathers. Honour first, the house motto was carved over the old mantelshelf in the hall, where Cyril had been shown it as a boy.

Honour first! And when he re-read his letter, the letter which changed his life from loneliness to sudden hope of happiness, Denise was coming out of the little house in the Italian town, puckering her forehead lest she had forgotten anything to make her scheme perfect.

"If we catch that weekly boat we could get to England by February, Reynolds."

"Yes, Sir Cyril; just about the second or first week of February."

"I can cable from the coast. Tell her ladyship to meet me."

Sir Cyril was boyish as he sat dreaming. Big people have the power to put the past behind them, to see sunshine in the future.

*****

The brown-skinned Italian nurse looked regretfully at the morsel of humanity in her arms. A bonny, bright-eyed little thing, blinking at the world solemnly.

"I shall miss my bambino, signora," she said sadly.

Esmé talked haltingly; she bent over the boy, looking down at him; she was pale, a little worn and thin; some of the brilliance had left her eyes.

"Is he not a pride—a joy? Ah, signora. Old Beatrice has nursed many bambinos, but none such as this."

Esmé turned away impatiently. She looked out across the Italian landscape, fair even in winter.

It was January. There would be time to hunt still in England, to enjoy herself. To taste the reward of her scheme. But....

"None such as this." The mite cooed at nothing, smiling and stretching his hands.

"Esmé! I mean Denise!"

Lady Blakeney ran into the room, calling excitedly: "My dear, the post is in."

"Well! Carefully, Esmé." Esmé flung accent on the name. "Well?"

"The post! Cyril has written; oh, it's splendid."

The nurse bent over her charge, crooning to it, but there was a curious look on her face.

"Oh, carefully!" said Esmé, shutting the door, going out on to the old marble terrace. "Carefully. One never knows what these people understand. You must not take the letters."

"I had to, Esmé. He's caught some boat. He will be in London at once. He—Cyril! He will hear—see the papers. We must leave at once, to-morrow. I am wiring to Paris, and to the nurse in London. Wiring for rooms. Ah! the doctor, prying at us."

But little Luigi was not prying. He came to advise, to counsel caution for the fair English miladi. She must not run about so much.

"There was a strain," he said. "Madame was not well—no, not well at all."

His dark eyes looked at Esmé's drawn face; he grunted thoughtfully.

"Madame is not so strong," he said. "It is but three weeks—but three, and she is up and about."

"And we leave to-morrow," she said. "My husband is coming home, signor. I must fly to meet him."

"He could come here," said Luigi Frascatelle. "You are not fit to travel."

"He hates Italy. This was my fancy—this coming here."

Her fancy! The big, bare rooms had made Esmé nervous and irritable; she had chafed during the dullness of waiting; had grown fretful and afraid. She hated the big room she had lain sick in, with its ornate bed, its bare, polished boards; the fire of chestnut wood. How often she had woken in terror, dreading what must come to her in it. Then there was constant need of caution; the strain of remembering had told on the woman who ought to have been with her own people, with her hours full, her time taken up.

She could have played bridge, grumbled to her friends, learnt comfort, been with her husband.

"No, Madame is nervous; not well," said the little Italian, "run down. Better if Sir Blakeney came here to take Madame the journey. Madame does not know that there were difficulties which have weakened her."

Esmé went away irritably. Denise, laughing, excited, came in.

"She will be all right," she said impatiently. "It is nothing, surely, mere natural strain."

"Che lo sa?" said Frascatelle, half to himself. "There is a nervousness, Madame, as if from mental strain—and there were complications at the birth."

"It's this Italy," Denise said carelessly, "so depressing."

"But I thought," Luigi looked up in astonishment, "that Italy was Miladi's whim—"

"But of course," Denise flushed, "but whims, signor, are not always wise. The place was lonely."

When Luigi Frascatelle came next day to the villa it was empty. The Italian men and maids had been paid off liberally. Beatrice, weeping for her charge, had come in the motor to the station and seen the ladies off. They were both thickly veiled, both muffled up.

The little doctor drove back to the town and on to the station, to meet the old woman returning from the station.

"From here to Paris, without maids, without a nurse," he cried, "and with a baby of four weeks. They are strange, these English."

"They who know not how to feed it," groaned Beatrice. "All is not right, signor."

He drove back to his house; he piled fragrant chestnut wood upon the fire; he applied himself thoughtfully to a dish of golden risotto.

"There is something strange about this miladi," he said to his favourite almond pudding. "No, all is not right."

It was a weary journey. Little Cyril learnt to weep upon it, torn from kindly arms who knew how to hold him; he learnt the meaning of pain and hunger. He voiced his protest as best he could.

"Oh! stop him, Esmé. Stop the brat!"

Denise woke at the fretful wailing. "Make a bed for him there, a bed on the seat," she said.

"He might fall off." Esmé held the whimpering bundle in her arms, sat wearily, afraid she might drop off to sleep.

"Feed him then; he wants milk. Oh, what a terrible journey!"

Yet she did nothing on it; for Esmé, curiously silent, saw to the child.

A tall woman, kindly-faced, hurried through the crowd at the Gare; cried out as she saw the baby in Esmé's arms.

"Lady Blakeney, is it not? I am the nurse, Mrs Stanson, engaged for your ladyship. Oh, milady, have you come alone—without a nurse?"

"The nurse was useless, insolent, neglecting baby," said Lady Blakeney, carelessly. "Take him now. He is so naughty. The woman neglected him."

"As those foreigners would do; yet he looks splendid. One moment, milady, while I gather these things."

She put the baby into Denise's arms, turning to pick up some of the tiny traveller's luggage. "Oh, not like that, milady," she cried, for the small head flopped on a stiffly-held arm and the boy wailed fretfully.

"H'm!" Esmé swept the mite out of Denise's hold. "Here! give him to me. H'sh, baby, hush!"

The nurse looked puzzled. She had seen Lady Blakeney once in London, but she blinked now, afraid her memory had played her false.

"Excuse me," she began, "I understood that this was her ladyship." She looked at Denise.

"I am Lady Blakeney," said Denise, angrily. "Oh! two taxis, please. I am tired of crying babies. Take him in one."

Mrs Stanson looked grave.

Esmé's eyes followed the tall woman who carried a little bundle down the platform. A sudden fierce ache of regret came to her—regret and anger. This little, white-limbed thing was hers. She would not have sent it off alone.

"Her ladyship," said Mrs Stanson, later, as she put her charge to sleep, "does not seem to care for children, ma'am."

"Some people do not." Esmé looked at the sleeping face. "He is happier now that you have him, nurse."

Downstairs the God of Chance was working wonders.

Denise, coming into the hall of the Bristol, cried out in astonishment.

A big man was registering at the bureau. Her name was written before his. He swung round with a cry as he looked at it.

"Denise!" his hands were on hers. He held them hard. "Denise, I got a paper at Marseilles. My poor child, out away there in Italy. Were you ill? It was two months too soon."

With a little sob Denise held to the big strong hands, knew then what she had so nearly lost; this man's protection, his name; his kind eyes looked into hers.

The past was past; she knew that. Some women make resolutions and keep them. Denise did then. For the future, the future she had made by fraud, Sir Cyril Blakeney's wife should be above suspicion.

"Oh, Denny, why didn't you tell me—keep me here?"

"I was afraid," she faltered. "You were cross then. And I was not sure."

"I was cross then." He took her away to a quiet corner. "That's over, my wife. And the boy? Come up to see him. Our boy! He's not delicate, I hope?"

"Oh, not yet—he'll be asleep now." Denise was gay, radiant, her colour bright. "I'm hungry, Cyrrie. Let's have dinner now—and talk—talk!"

"Talk," he laughed. "Why didn't you wire for Sir Herman to go out? Were you bad? I never saw you looking stronger."

"Oh, no, I was not bad. I'm very strong," she said, a little uneasily.

"And you came on so soon. There's nothing wrong with him, is there? Oh, Denise, tell me."

"Wrong with him? No!" she said, laughing carelessly. "He's a great baby."

Denise was looking through a door of life which she had never tried to open, that of love and trust. She was too shallow to regret the use of the false key which she had forced it open with. She was safe; Cyril would never bring up the past to the boy's mother.

"Come then, and see a sleeping bundle of flannels," she said.

The boy had just gone to sleep. Sir Cyril's first view of him was with Esmé stooping over the cot, looking wistfully down at the tiny face.

"Mrs Carteret has quite a way with a child," said the nurse, graciously. "He's a splendid boy, Sir Cyril."

Sir Cyril had had shy ideas of a something whispered across the new hope in his life, of a promise for the future or regrets for the past. As it was, he could only stand almost awkwardly, afraid that a clumsy movement might wake the child.

"Great fellow, isn't he?" he said sheepishly.

"A splendid boy, Sir Cyril—really splendid; fair, sir, as you are; he has a curious mark, a regular small plum, on his shoulder."

Esmé started. Just on her shoulder she had a round, purple mark, shaped as a plum; she had never dreamt of the baby inheriting it.

A true Blakeney, big and strong, cleanly made, Sir Cyril stood by the cot, with the pride of this heir to his big in him.

"He's just wonderful, Den," he said simply. "I thought that, coming too soon, he might be puny, delicate—but he's fine."

Esmé turned away. It was her boy they praised, and she knew the bitterness of jealousy.

If gold could have been fried for dinner, and diamonds used for sauce, Sir Cyril would have ordered them that night. He was too big and quiet to be openly hilarious, but its very quiet made it more marked. He ordered a special dinner, special wines, fruit, boxes of sweets. The table was littered as if it were one at Maxim's. To-morrow they would search Paris for a memento, for something to mark this meeting.

Esmé, listening, felt as some mortal who, standing in the cold, looks through clear glass at a blazing fire yet cannot warm himself. They shut a door on her; she had no boy lying upstairs; no husband to rejoice in his heir.

The cold stung bitterly; it loosed dull pangs of envy, of futile wrath. For what had brought these two together was hers, and she had sold it. Sometimes they turned to her vaguely, bringing her into their plans. Esmé would come shopping in the morning, of course, help to choose jewels; Esmé had been such a friend—so devoted.

"I'll never forget it, Mrs Carteret," Sir Cyril said once. "You lost half a year to keep my wife company. Lord! you're a real friend!"

"Yes." Esmé crunched a silvered bonbon, a cunning mixture of almonds and fruit and sugar. She picked another up, looking at it. Had she not looked on life as a bonbon, to crunch prettily and enjoy, a painted, flavoured piece of sugar?

She had money; she could go to the hidden shops on the second storeys, and buy the dainty fripperies that Paris knows how to produce; she wanted a fur coat, new frocks, hats, a dozen things.

Sir Cyril was bending close to his wife, holding her out a glass of Chartreuse, clinking it against hers.

"Den," his voice was stirred by deep emotion, "some day we'll go, you and I, and take that villa for a month, and I can see where my boy was born."

The glassful of amber syrup fell on the table, the glass splinters dulled by the oily liquid.

"Oh, some day," said Denise, trembling. "How stupid of me! But it was a dull spot, Cyrrie. It was only fancy, nerves, which took me there. Wasn't it dull, Den"—she stopped—"Esmé?"

"I never hated any place so much in my life," said Esmé, dully.

That night she crept along the corridor, stood listening at a door.

Primitive instinct was stronger than the power of money. Her boy lay sleeping in that quiet room.

"Oh, Esmé!"—Denise called her into her room next day—"Esmé! Come here! You can go, Summers."

Her new maid, sent from England with the nurse, went quietly out.

"Esmé!" Denise lowered her voice. "About that money. I owe you some now. I can't write cheques, you see, every half-year; but this time I can explain." She threw a slip of paper across to Esmé.

"Thank you. And the boy?" said Esmé.

"Oh! he's all right. I saw Mrs Stanson. He slept well. Don't mess about him, Esmé! It would only look silly—better not. Will you meet us at the Ritz for déjeuner?"

Esmé excused herself. She might be late. She would come back to the hotel.

She went out into the crisp, stinging cold of early February. Touch of frost on Paris, drift of hot air from shop doors, clear sunlight overhead, people hurrying along the dry pavements. Furs everywhere, outlining piquant French faces; from solid sombre imitation to the sheen of Russian sable and the coarse richness of silver fox.

A fur coat—Esmé wanted one—went restlessly into a shop, tried on, priced, gloried in their soft richness, their linings of mauve and white; saw her fair beauty framed by dark sable, by light-hued mink, by rich fox skin, and knew again disappointment.

The three coats she wanted were splendid things; each one would take almost all her money, leave nothing for frocks and hats.

Impatiently, almost angrily, she stood frowning at the glass.

"Oh! yes, the coat was lovely; but the price! Four hundred pounds of English money; and this other was five!" There was the little coat of mink priced at a mere bagatelle.

"Yes, but Madame must see that it was coarse beside the others."

Cunningly the shopman put the two together; showed the rare sheen of the sable, the cravat of real lace, the exquisite tinting of the blue and silver brocade lining, and laid against it a coat which would have looked rich alone, but here, against this, was a mere outcast.

"Madame sees; the coat is cheap—a bargain. We sold one to-day, almost like it. Ah! here it is!"

"I must take the cheap one," Esmé muttered. "I—"

"See, this one was sold to Milady Blakeney. And this which we wish Madame to have is almost as good. Milady's has remained for slight alteration."

Truly a gorgeous garment this—sables black in their splendour; clasps of jade and silver and paste; lining such as fairy princesses might wear. A ruffle of old Mechlin.

"This is of English money nine hundred pounds. Unique, exquisite. And this other looks as well."

Sudden bitter resentment choked Esmé. Denise could have this coat and go on to other shops to buy jewels, laces, unneeded follies. What was five hundred pounds? Denise might easily have taken her out to-day, bought her furs or given her twice the stipulated money; this time might have been generous.

"Oh! I'll take this one." Esmé touched the sable coat. After all, she had money in the bank; she had lived free for six months. "Yes, I'll pay for it now."

She had to wait while they went to the bank; then she went out in the rich mantle. It was heavy, a little difficult to walk in, but she could see her fair face against the dark furs as she peered into mirrors.

At the dressmaker's she grew irritable again. Why again should all she wanted be so dear? That soft wisp of satin and chiffon and lace, a mere rag in the hand, but on a model cunningly outlining rounded limbs, setting off a soft throat, billowing about one's feet; that tea-gown of opal velvet; that severe coat and skirt of blue, were all beyond her now that the coat was hers. Yet Esmé bought recklessly, a sullen anger driving her. Madame Arielle would copy and create others, these three she must have. And this—and this blouse; another dress and scarf.

Esmé had ordered there before, but never in this style. Madame looked dubious.

"I'll pay you fifty now on account." And so only fifty left of a half-yearly price. "That brown—you'll copy it at once?"

"Ah, yes—shortly." But Madame was pressed. "Milady Blakeney had been in ordering a dozen frocks, but of a beauty," gushed Madame, "one all of real lace and silver crepe. Ah, yes."

Denise again before her, dwarfing her, Esmé's, orders. The coat seemed heavier now. She bought hats almost languidly; passed a jeweller's window, saw a necklace, a thing of diamonds and emeralds exquisite in its fine work, with one great diamond swinging from the fret of green and white.

"How much?" Esmé shrugged her shoulders. "It would have gone so well with her new gown." She bought a tiny brooch of enamel and went out.

It was dull at lunch at the Café de la Paix. She did not go back for it. It was stupid to eat alone; the omelette tasted leathery; the little fillets tough; the place was overheated; she would have taken off her coat, but the dress underneath was last year's, therefore a thing to be hidden.

Men stared at the beautiful English woman in her daring green hat and gorgeous furs.

Sipping her liqueur, Esmé tried to lose her irritation in dreams of the future. Bertie would be home; they would take up their old happy life; but even more happily. She would be so well off now. Able to buy her own frocks, to help in many ways. When she got back she would go off to hunt somewhere. Esmé looked at her hands; they were so much thinner. Would she be strong enough to hunt? She had lost her rounded contours; she knew that there were new lines on her fair skin, that she had lost some of her youth.

These things age one. And yet—"L'addition," she said sharply. Yet she thought of a little soft thing lying in the big upstairs room at the Bristol, and something hurt her sharply again.

She was tired of shopping, she would go back there now. It was lonely in Paris.

Mrs Stanson, writing letters to engage a variety of nursemaids—she considered a person of her position must be thoroughly waited on—was surprised by a visit from Esmé.

The baby was splendid after all his trials and his journey. Mrs Stanson did not hold with infants travelling; she dreaded the cold journey back to England.

"Nor do I hold with the heat of these here rooms," said the English nurse, "and with the cold a-rushing in like a mad dog with its mouth open if one stirs a window. Give me air for a child, Mrs Carteret, air and warmth; but above all, air."

An autocrat of the nursery, this Mrs Stanson, who had nursed heirs of great houses and loved her charges. A death now, the passing of pretty delicate Lady de Powers and her infant son, had set the woman free.

"You'll love him, Mrs Stanson—be good to him?" Esmé flung out the words in sudden impulse; she took the smiling baby up.

"I declare, Mrs Carteret, he might be yours instead of her ladyship's," laughed the nurse. "She came in for five minutes, and asked if I wanted anything, and to order what I wanted. I made it two nursery-maids to-day. Like many young mothers, she's careless. It's the ladies without that would give their eyes for one," said Mrs Stanson, softly.

"Without." A slur on her, Esmé, whose child was in her arms. Something hurt in her throat; she turned red and then white. She sat for an hour in the big bright room, listening to all the ills which lurk in wait for infant life, related with gusto by the nurse. A little chill, a spoon of soured food, and poof! out goes the life; then later, chicken-pox, measles, whooping-cough; wet feet. It seemed wonderful to think that there were any children left alive. Little Cyril, dribbling thoughtfully, had no idea of what was before him.

But at the end, comfort. "And yet they lives," said Mrs Stanson, "lives on, on beer and dripping, which I am informed is used as baby food by the very poor."

Denise came in for tea, fresh, radiant, wrapped in a great stole of fox. Big Sir Cyril pulling little boxes innumerable from his pockets.

They had a sitting-room. Denise called Esmé in to her, spread purchases on the table.

"See, Esmé—this pendant, isn't it sweet? And this enamel clasp—and this brooch—and that diamond heart." The table glittered with the things. "Oh, Cyril could not buy enough for me. He is so good."

Almost sullenly Esmé looked down at the stone of green, white and red; the pendant and necklace was the one which she had coveted. Denise might offer to give her some of these; she might ask her if there was nothing she wanted.

"And I got you something, Es—just as remembrance. Cyril wished me to. Summers! bring in the parcels. Yes, there it is."

Esmé knew the label—that of a huge shop close to the Place de l'Opera; good, but bourgeois, cheap.

"See! I hate that musquash thing you wear. It's too dark for you." Denise pulled out a stole of brown fox—a huge thing, covered with tails, but meretricious, showy; the satin of the lining crackled as she touched it. This for all she had done for her friend.

"Thank you, Denise." Esmé took up the fur. "How pretty. It was nice of you to think of me, now that I am of no further use."

Denise looked up, startled by momentary fear. Surely Esmé was more than content with her share of the bargain. Was glad to be rid of her unwanted brat; to have ample allowance and be free. For a minute she saw what it might be if Esmé failed her.

But Denise was shallowly optimistic; she laughed the fears away; she kissed Esmé affectionately.

"It was a great thought, and it's splendidly over," she whispered—"over for us both."

"And you? You really begin to feel that he is yours?" whispered Esmé back, almost fiercely.

"I believe I do. I shall have forgotten it completely in ten years' time," laughed Lady Blakeney.

"And—shall I?" said Esmé to herself.

CHAPTER VI

"Some people," said Mousie Cavendish, "appear to have come into a fortune."

She touched Esmé Carteret's sable coat, stroking the soft fur, her small greenish eyes looking up wickedly.

"Friends ... are nice things," said Mousie, softly. "Hey, my pretty Esmé."

Esmé flushed. Five minutes before she had grumbled at her poverty, now she came down in her splendid wrap waiting for the motor.

Money had never seemed to go so fast. The half-year's allowance from Denise had been spent in a day. More new frocks, new habits had seemed necessary. A restlessness haunted Esmé; she was not satisfied with anything, she was nervous, lacked appetite, had grown thin.

She was doing the last of the hunting season at Coombe Regis now, an old Elizabethan house taken by the Holbrooks.

Their only difficulty, as Mousie said sweetly, is "that they cannot remake the bricks with gold dust, it's so ordinary to have one's house made of clay and straw and water, otherwise bricks."

There were horses in the stables, sleek, shining hunters, belonging to friends who came to stay. Esmé hired from a local stable. She rode hard and straight, but came in tired after her day; her old perfect health had deserted her.

"There," said Mousie, looking out onto the chill March day, "is Luke, our host, seeking for something he may spend money on. He wants to be a peer next birthday, and his hopes are high."

The flowers in the old-fashioned flower-garden were a blaze of magnificence. Mr Holbrook was looking at them, greatly interested in one patch of pure white daffodils because he had paid ten pounds a piece for the bulbs. The Cabinet minister who was coming to stay was a florist. A gift of some of these might please him greatly.

The Holbrooks had made Coombe Regis into a passable imitation of a Hotel de Luxe. The old hall was now a palm court, heated by hot air, its great open fireplace offended by a new grate which held coals; the drawing-room was magnificent in dull blue and gold; stiffly hideous, with great mirrors shining everywhere.

The dining-room was a mass of mechanical devices, of lifts and electric heaters and telephones to everywhere, the small tables were all polished wood spread with slips of real lace. One dined scratchily off luke-warm silver, one's breakfast cup was Crown Derby set in filigree.

"So annoying of the hens not to learn to lay golden eggs," remarked Mrs Cavendish one morning when she had examined half a dozen things smoking over the electric heaters. "What's the use of this pure gold Orpington here sitting on a silver nest when she only hatches things which can be purchased at a penny and twopence each. No, I refuse to eat truffles and cream and salmon for breakfast, nor do I require ham and champagne sauce."

A big party had assembled for the ball of Regis Hunt races. Dull people and smart people, who ate their meals together with regret, and drifted apart directly afterwards. The dull people ate the ornamented dishes and sighed inwardly for roast mutton, the smart people picked at them and wanted the French cookery their greedy souls adored.

But Mr Holbrook was content. He was getting on. He did kind things which he concealed rigorously, and he did generous things for his own benefit, and his peerage loomed ahead.

"My dear love," said Holbrook, coming into the library. He had furnished the shelves with first editions of various authors whom no one ever read. Statues stood, coldly graceful in corners, gleaming white against the brown background. The library table carried a writing set of leather worked in gold. Grace Holbrook was dictating letters to her secretary, a slim girl with a pink nose and an irritated expression.

"My dear," said Holbrook. "Do you think—?" He paused.

"You can go, Miss Harris," said Mrs Holbrook.

"Do you think," he said—"hum, Critennery has a little weakness ... she dances at the Magnificent, in some gauze ... that we could have her down. Lady Ermyntrude is not coming."

"We couldn't," said Mrs Holbrook, hastily. "The Duchess is coming."

"Well, it's quite his little weakness and he can do as he likes," said Holbrook, mournfully. "I do want Henry to be Lord Regis, my love. It's just to dance on Saturday. I would arrange with Hewson of the Magnificent. And dancers are so fashionable."

"My dear Luke, the Duchess of Dullshire will be here," said his wife, firmly, "and the Trents, and Lord Frensham. We couldn't. The Duchess was at the Magnificent, I remember seeing it mentioned—she must have seen the woman without any ... that is dancing."

"She is so very graceful," said Luke. "Well, my love, of course if we cannot. But artistes do go everywhere now. She lunches with Lady Ermyntrude, and I thought that her presence, combined with a present of those Angel bulb roots; but if you object ... well, it's quite a little weakness, my love. Critennery would have liked to talk to Mavis Moover."

Mrs Holbrook wavered visibly. "If the Duchess had not been in front," she said; "still, she's very blind and won't wear glasses; she may not have noticed the gauze. I don't want our party to be spoilt, Luke, but—"

"Think it over, my love," said Holbrook, going out. "Think it over. And there's Jimmie Gore Helmsley coming. I see his name down. I don't like him, Gracie. He's a bad 'un, my love."

"He goes everywhere. He's running a horse," said Mrs Holbrook. "That long-legged bay thing we saw galloping to-day. People say it will win. He goes everywhere, Luke."

"So much the worse," said Mr Holbrook, "for everywhere."

Something had happened to the motor Esmé was going out in—a tyre had punctured as it was starting and the chauffeur gave warning of an hour's delay. Esmé yawned, waiting in the over-heated hall.

Bertie would be home in a week; she would want more wine at cost price from her host. Seeing him come out she flashed a friendly smile at him. She asked him to send her some.

But Luke Holbrook, who had been glad to help a pretty girl in a tiny flat, saw no reason for losing a profit to a woman in magnificent sables.

"Want more hock?" he said. "The same as last, eh? Yes, I told you to ask me—but it's gone up—gone up, and whisky too, and port.... I'll send it on to you. Kind of me. It's my business, pretty lady, my business. No bother at all."

Esmé did not realize that he meant to charge her full price.

"We've had such a hunt, we came back early." Sybil Chauntsey ran into the hall in her habit, young Knox close behind her. Mrs Holbrook approved of love. She had asked them together. "Oh, such a run," babbled Sybil. "And my chestnut was glorious, the dear."

"Jimmie always said that the chestnut was his best horse." Mousie Cavendish's thin lips curved in a spiteful smile.

Young Knox started, looked at Sybil.

"I thought it was your own horse," he said gravely.

"Captain Gore Helmsley lent him to me for the season. I call him mine. I thought that you knew."

"No, I did not." The young soldier seemed to have forgotten his gallop; he looked tired and put out.

"The car, madam, is ready." A butler who bore the mark of experience stamped upon his impassive face came forward. Esmé fastened her coat, asked for a companion—Mrs Cavendish would come. Her spiteful tongue made light strokes at reputations as the car hummed along. No one escaped. No one was immune. She had come to drive to find out who had given Esmé the coat, for the fair girl had never made herself auspicious.

"Met heaps of nice things abroad, I s'pose.... Why didn't you order a limousine, Esmé? I hate the wind in these open things ... heaps of princes, I suppose, and rich potentates, didn't you, in your travels?"

"Heaps," said Esmé. "At least we must have seen them sometimes."

"Funniest thing rushing off like that for all these months, so unlike Denise Blakeney. It didn't agree with you, Esmé; it made you thin, and different somehow."

"The climate," Esmé said, flushing a little.

"And fancy Denise not coming home for the event, trusting herself to foreign doctors and nurses."

"She did not intend to stay," Esmé answered. "She meant to be back."

"I saw the son and heir. A great fat thing, fair like Cyril. Well, it settles all the difficulties then. Denise doesn't play the rôle of devoted mother; she says the baby bores her."

A sudden wave of anger shook Esmé—fear for her child—it might be neglected, grow up unloved. Then they stopped at the toy shop at Regis.

"A parcel for Mrs Holbrook," she said to the man. Obsequious assistants ran out to the Coombe Regis motors.

A hunting man, still in his splashed pink, stopped them. He, too, was full of the great run.

"Coming out to-morrow to Welcombe," he said. "We're all training down."

Esmé's face clouded.

"I can't afford it. I owe the man twenty pounds. I've done two days this week."

A year ago Esmé would have almost expected a horse offered to her. Major Jackson had fifteen of them; she had only to look appealing then, talked of poverty, and horses came as from the clouds.

Now he too looked at her coat. Its owner could not want help.

"Other engagements," he chaffed lightly. "You're losing your keenness, Mrs Carteret. Fact."

Esmé turned away ill-humouredly. They drove back to Coombe Regis, the open car humming through the cool spring afternoon. Mousie Cavendish questioning, surmising, as they went.

The palm court was crowded now, partitions had been knocked away, a room thrown in to make it large enough; there was no gathering round for tea. Trays were placed on the little glass-topped satinwood tables. Hot biscuits and scones were kept hot on electric heaters. The butler laid a species of buffet covered with huge iced cakes, and relays of sandwiches if the supplies on each tray were not sufficient.

"Only one thing required—cold roast beef and plum pudding," Mousie said ill-naturedly, as she looked at it. The tea-pots were all silver gilt, the little piles of cakes and sandwiches rested on real lace. In the drawing-room Mrs Holbrook gathered her dullest guests at a table, where she poured out tea herself, away from the more clouded atmosphere of the hall.

Several expensive toy dogs sat about on the blue and gold brocade and ate scraps of cake merely to oblige the guests.

They dined off minced chicken and fillet of beef, and breakfasted off cream and grape nuts. Mr Holbrook liked them because he had paid three hundred for Li Chi the pug, and two for Holboin Santoi the pomeranian.

"Luke," said Mrs Holbrook, taking her second cup of chilly tea. "Luke, I think we could do it; the Duchess may never know who she is."

"Do you really, my love?" said Holbrook, briskly. "Then I'll write to her manager and to her, enclosing a note from you. She will go so well with the bulbs—Critennery must be pleased."

Esmé had found a pile of letters waiting for her, long envelopes containing accounts rendered. She did not know where her money had gone to. Nothing seemed paid for.

She was going to her room, walking on carpets so thick that her feet sank into them, with all the silence of riches round her, doors which opened and shut noiselessly, deadened footsteps, when she stopped startled.

"Ah, Madame!" Marie, her late maid, smiled at her. "Ah, Madame." Marie was enchanted. She had regretted so that Madame had been obliged to part with her.

"I am with Milady Goold, Madame, and I see Madame has not been well; she is looking delicate, then."

"It was Italy." Esmé was nervous before the Frenchwoman, whose brown eyes looked at her with a curious shrewdness.

"Madame had much travelling with Milady Blakeney? I have been to Reggio, Madame; I have a cousin there."

Esmé turned swiftly to her door to hide her white cheeks. She recovered in a moment. Even if Marie did write or go there, there was nothing to find out. "Yes—it's a dull place, Marie," she said. "And when you're out of a place come back to me. Watson cannot do hair, Marie."

Marie went away smiling—a curious little smile. "There was something curious in all that," she said softly. "Something, but yes, strange—and one day I, Marie, will find it out."

The races were to be on Tuesday. Saturday saw Coombe Regis with every room full. The Cabinet minister felt himself over-honoured in one of the huge state rooms, where the old carved bedstead had been left, and all the electric lights did not seem to dispel the shadows.

"Kind of thing queens died in," said the minister as he took a long walk from his bed to the dressing-table.

The Duchess occupied another vast chamber, made incongruously modern by a low bedstead representing a lily, and bought for a fabulous sum from France. "Absurd," said Her Grace, as she poked into the down pillows and lace-edged sheets arrayed among the inlaid petals. "Also it can't have proper springs."

Her Grace of Dullshire was a large lady of philanthropic tendencies. She kept a herd of prize cows which she sold to her friends for large sums, and prize hens, and she knew a horse when she saw one, so had come for the races. She also liked bridge, when she won. The Duchess was a leader of society, one fully aware of the fact. Her deep voice had power to slide an ambitious clamberer back over the edge of the cliff which she had scaled with difficulty. To be asked to Dullengla Court, where one dined off beef soup, boiled cod, roast mutton, cabbage or turnips, and rice moulds, was to be marked as with an order. The Duke never visited, and the Marquis of Boredom, their son, had so far not been allowed to marry. He had, greatly against his will, been included in this house-party, it being an unfortunate fact that his taste was for attractive ladies on the stage. "I would allow you to marry Lady Sukey Ploddy," said his mother when they got to the door of Coombe Regis; "she will be here." The palm court was brilliant to-night. Shaded lights glowed through the artificial leaves, showing chiffons and satins, laces and silks, and the black-and-white dinner armour of mankind. Rare jewels flashed, faint scents made the air fragrant.

The Cabinet minister, coming down just before dinner, stood on the Duchess's toe in his surprise at catching sight of a dark moving face and a supple, slight form.

"Mavis," said the minister, blankly.... "Oh, so sorry, Duchess. I hope it didn't hurt. Did Homburg last year, y'know. Now if it had been before that...."

The Duchess's hop to a chair shook the palm court. Her only son, coming down in almost painfully well-made clothes, was confiding his woes to a friend. "Absolutely rotten bein' caught for it. Scarcely a girl to speak to, and if there is she'll be off with some Johnny she knew before. Nothin' but Ploddys and that spiteful Cavendish, and oh, hang, rot all round, y'know. Yes, mamma."

"Who?" said the Duchess, "who, Francis, is that nice-looking girl in black?"

"Gracious!" said Lord Boredom. "Lord! it isn't," he paused ... "her name is Moover, mother," he said blandly—"Moover."

"American," summed up the Duchess, accepting her host's arm. Mrs Holbrook sorted the vast party every evening and paired them off for dinner.

Lord Boredom received Lady Sukey Ploddy's substantial hand upon his coat sleeve, and intelligently remarked, "Eh oh, Imagin," when she told him she was looking forward to the races.

The minister took in his hostess, and found the dancer at their table for four. "I like this," said Miss Moover contentedly, taking caviare. "Nice of 'em to ask me, wasn't it? Old Luke—"

"That's your hostess," said the minister, hurriedly. The magnificence of dinner descended upon them and the food. One reached for fish beneath a truffle-spangled vest of sauce; one poked at a snowy tower and found that upon the menu it was harmless chicken in disguise. If the cook did not earn her salary by spending money on elaboration she would be speedily replaced.

Gay voices, light laughter, rang up to the vaulted roof. Armies of powdered footmen moved deftly among the tables. The celebrated Holbrook wines were poured out lavishly.

One finished with bad coffee and took choice of a dozen liqueurs, the blue haze of smoke floating around the heated air. Huge golden boxes, initialled and becrested, stood on the tables, filled with cigars and cigarettes; the butler, faintly proud of so much wasted money, stood for a moment before he left. Red bars gleamed along the shining mahogany from the rich ruby of the port.

The dull people drifted away with their hostess to the drawing-room to read and work and gossip, but the Duchess lingered in the palm court waiting for her son.

"A very nice-looking girl," said Her Grace. "Miss Moover, I think I have seen you somewhere."

"Perhaps," said Mavis, civilly. "Perhaps, Duchess."

Lord Boredom, who had quite woke up, sniggered softly; for the rest of the evening the Cabinet minister, who was a philosopher, realized the power of youth over mere prestige as he watched the Marquis of Boredom devote himself to a demure-looking girl in black, with the manifest approval of his mother.

A gentle feeler to Miss Moover, whose real name was Harris, had resulted in a frank avowal from that young lady that at present her income was several hundreds a week. "And all my own," said Mavis, a little sadly, for she had come to London to work for a mother who had died before her daughter grew famous.

There were a dozen little dramas played out under the high roof—comedy, tragedy, drama, to each its caste, its players and its audience.

Young Oliver Knox's bright face had lost its gaiety. He was a mere everyday soldier, awkward of speech because he loved deeply and pitted against Gore Helmsley, who woke to the game because there was a new chance of losing it. With his black eyes full of the admiration he knew how to throw into them, his words laden with subtle compliment, he followed pretty Sybil, slipped her away from her fretting lover, took her to play bridge, and praised her mistakes as flashes of genius.

The girl was flustered as she found herself playing against Mrs Cavendish and Dolly Frensham, two gamblers of repute. She saw the scores added and settled, heard Jimmie say carelessly that she could settle with him next day, and scarcely knew what she had lost. Esmé flashed careless answer to Gore Helmsley's cool greeting; he had done with her, and yet his coolness hurt. Comedy was played in the palm court, played next day after breakfast, with Miss Mavis Moover as its heroine. The Duchess was quite charmed with her, accepting certain little frivolities as merely transatlantic. Mavis displayed a worthy interest in cows, and was not averse to philanthropy. "You'd be happy in a simple country place," said the Duchess, referring to the vast house with at least ten sitting-rooms, in three of which they camped out.

"I think so," said Mavis, quietly. "I guess so, if I liked the people."

"My love," said Luke Holbrook on Monday morning. "It hasn't quite worked, my love. I fear our hope in the Cabinet has not had the time we intended him to. I fear that nosey boy of the Duchess's has put his foot in the pie," said Luke, sadly.

"Luke!" said his wife.

"Fallen into the dish. All the same, my love. Critennery is leaving to-day."

"He can travel by the same train as his fancy," said Mrs Holbrook, placidly.

The great man, urbanely gracious, came to make his adieux. Holbrook looked at him apologetically. "You will travel up then with Miss Moover," said Mrs Holbrook, brightly; "she leaves this morning."

The Cabinet minister drew on his grey gloves carefully, then adjusted the fingers slowly.

"Lord Boredom," he said, "is motoring Miss Moover to Town just in time for her performance. Good-bye again. So many thanks for a charming visit." He turned to his host with a smile. "Come to me directly you come up," he said. "If you want that baronetcy."

"In the outside lot again," said Holbrook, lugubriously. "But he's a good sort, he may understand, my love."

The races played their part. Gore Helmsley, a splendid rider, won easily, cantering in five lengths in front, his long figure looking its best on horseback, his dark face glowed when he rode. Young Knox's horse fell; the boy came in muddy, shaken, sad in mind, because it was a jostle with his rival which had knocked him down.

Sybil gathered some gold gaily. Jimmy had put a tenner on for her. With a girl's folly she feasted her eyes on tinsel, turning away from the duller mint of hall-marked gold. Here the curtains might fall on a tragedy, fall hurriedly, for the chief actress would have to smile and call it comedy to her audience if she was ever to appear again on Society's stage.

Sybil came laughing to one of the smaller sitting-rooms that evening, a room warm, softly lighted, one ordered as one chose at Coombe Regis. She was having tea then with Gore Helmsley.

"No one will look for us here," he had said as he rang the bell. "Let's have a quiet half-hour. Talk to me, little pal, I'm tired."

Over the indifferent tea, poured out of a gilt teapot, Sybil smiled gaily, held out her day's winnings—twenty pounds.

"See, I owe you money for bridge, for two nights. Take it. I hope there's enough to pay. I did play stupidly."

Jimmie pushed back the pile of gold. "My dear, you lost eighty pounds. What does it matter—that can stand over. I paid the Cavendish for you; she's a cat and would talk."

Sybil cried out, frightened and astonished. Eighty pounds! and besides that she had played in a lady's four and lost another ten. Her mother was not rich; she could not pay easily.

"Keep your pennies," he mocked in lordly tones. "Some day you'll pay me. I am glad to help a little pal." Jimmie meant the payment to be a high one, with interest. He was a merciless human hawk, poising long, swift to strike at the last. "We played sixpennies, you see."

"I never dreamt," Sybil faltered; "I thought it was pennies here."

When you owe a man eighty pounds, when he has paid rather than have you cornered, it would be churlish to spring aside, a prude, if he kisses you softly before you part. If he pulls you to the arm of his chair and keeps you there, holding two small chill hands, it is surely all in good friendship.

Sybil went away with some of the careless youth wiped from her fresh face, with trouble and perplexity in her frank eyes; the big dark man fascinated her, knew how to make her feel a little queen, how to bring the hot blood to her cheeks, but to-night she was half afraid. His little pal! She'd cured his headache—been a brick to stay with him. Instead of playing bridge to-night they'd play piquet in a quiet corner, he whispered.

"You didn't come to tea." Oliver Knox came straight to Sybil in the hall, his face ill-humoured. "I was watching for you."

"No, I was tired," she said, blushing a little.

"And Gore Helmsley did not come—our black Adonis, Miss Chauntsey—can't you see through the man?"

A foolish speech uttered by foolishly, honestly loving youth. Sybil tossed her head angrily and walked away offended.

"Coming to play to-night?" Mousie Cavendish asked her.

Sybil's lips drooped.

"I don't think so. I've lost such a lot. You play too high for me."

"Pooh! What matter. Jimmie doesn't mind. He's full of money now after the race."

"I've lost such a lot," Sybil repeated, forgetting that she was angry with Oliver Knox, turning to him in her trouble, missing the meaning in the woman's words.

"You ought not to play with that crowd. Mrs Cavendish is the best player in London—the quickest to read a face, I'll bet. It's madness, folly."

Another foolish speech. Sybil went off to change. This drama was being played quickly. The girl was stirred, flattered; awakened nature made her a lute too easily played on by a practised hand. She shrank from decision, from promising to marry a soldier of slender fortune, and she knew that decision was near. That night, after dinner, her young lover followed her, took her, almost against her will, away from the others to the library, with its rows of richly-bound volumes, its sombre magnificence.

"Sybil"—the boy's face was white. He was too moved for eloquence. "Sybil, you know I love you. I can't stand by and see that other fellow follow you, as he has followed others. Making you—you remarkable. Sybil, I'm not rich, but I love you, marry me—I'll make you happy."

And—she was not sure—for a moment she felt his arms close round her and dreamt of peace and sheltered love, then again she was not sure, she said so faltering. Give her time ... she muttered.

"Sybil, I can't wait. It's life or death to me. Give the fellow up. Give him back his horse. I'll hire you one. Go, tell him now. It maddens me to see you ride the brute."

Give back the horse, and to-morrow she was to ride the perfect chestnut at the meet. Next day they were going back to London, they were dining with Jimmie, motoring with him. "I'll tell you"—Sybil faltered—"later—I don't know."

An anxious lover is always a fool. He would have no delay, he must know. It was a choice—a challenge to fate. If she took him it must be altogether. She was too young to understand. Sybil was tortured by indecision. How, owing eighty pounds, could she go to her friend and say, I will not ride your horse—I will not dine with you. How could she hurt him?

"Sybil, I thought you cared," a hoarse voice roused her.

"I believe I do. Oh, Oliver, give me time."

"No!" he was going away, leaving next morning. "I cannot share you, Sybil. Oh, friendship. Don't prate of that to me, but, if you want me, send for me. If I can ever help, write or wire. I'll go on loving you as long as I'm alive. As you don't care enough I can go."

He flung out bruised and hurt.

Was it chance or design which had made Jimmie Gore Helmsley talk that day of the worries of a soldier's life.

"Kicked about, never enough money, poky houses, a rattling two-seater, or a dogcart, a dog's life for a pretty woman," Jimmie had said lightly. "Stuck in some wretched country town or in some big station where the dust reeks of the army. I've pitied so many girls who have married soldiers. Think of your beauty now thrown away." And all the time as young Knox pleaded Sybil had recalled these words.

Esmé went back to London next day, back to her little flat.

A bleak wind swept along the streets, dark clouds raced across the sky. It was dreary, intensely cold, the flat was poky, its cosiness seemed to have deserted it, it had become a tawdry box. The furniture looked shabby, worn, the tenants had been careless. Esmé stood discontentedly pulling at her cushions, petulantly moving back china to old places. Her servants were new, inclined to be lazy. The cook looked blankly unenthusiastic as to lunch.

"Couldn't possibly have all that in time to-day, mem. They'd send round something from Harrod's, no doubt."

Esmé lunched ill-humouredly off galantine and tinned peas. She thought of the big houses she had been in; they must move, take a little house. This place was out of the way, inconvenient. She ordered flowers recklessly, telephoned to Denise inviting herself to dinner.

The butler answered. "Yes, her ladyship would be dining in, he would ask." There was a long pause, then an answer. "Her ladyship would be pleased to see Mrs Carteret at eight."

"She might have spoken herself," said Esmé, angrily.

The afternoon dragged wearily. Esmé drove to one of the big shops, ordering new cushions, new coverings, but languidly; she meant to leave the flat and took no real interest in it.

She went early to the Blakeneys. Denise was not dressed. No message came asking her to go to her friend's room. Esmé had to learn that an obligation creates constraint, as the person we owe money to, however generously given, is never a welcome guest.

But Esmé left the pretty drawing-room. Its spaciousness made her envious, she stepped past Denise's room to the upper landings. Here Mrs Stanson was just coming to her supper. A little lightly-breathing thing lay asleep in his cot.

"But, nurse, he's pale, isn't he, thin?" Esmé whispered.

"He caught a cold, Mrs Carteret. Oh, nothing. I feared croup, but it passed. It's a trying month, you see, for tiny children."

Lightly, so softly that the baby never stirred, Esmé stooped to kiss him, stood looking down at the child which ought to have been sleeping in the spare room at the flat.

But he would have been a nuisance there, an inconvenience, she told herself insistently.

Then fear tore at her heart. What if the child should die. "Be good to him," she whispered, slipping a sovereign into Mrs Stanson's hand. "Be good to him, Mrs Stanson."

She got down before Denise did. Felt the want of warmth in her hostess's greeting. Denise was splendidly gowned, gay, merry, looking younger, happier. Sir Cyril's eyes followed his wife, contentment visible in their look.

"My dear Esmé, delighted, of course. When you are alone always come here. We've only a four for bridge—Susie and her husband. You can cut in."

"I'll look on." Esmé felt that she was not wanted, she was odd man out. She flushed unhappily.

Denise was full of plans, each one including Cyril now. She talked lightly of that boy Jerry. She was completely the happy wife, confident in her position.

"And the boy. He's had a cold," Esmé said.

"A cold has he? I think I heard him sniff?"

"Yes, he's had a cold," Sir Cyril said. "He was quite feverish. Denise is not a nursery bird, I fear."

"And you've been dining off gold plate at the Holbrooks, Esmé. I wouldn't go. Cyril and I went for a few last days with the Quorn. Cyril bought me such a lovely mare, all quality. Ah, here is Sue." Lady Susan Almorni was not a friend of Esmé's. Denise seemed to be leaving her smart friends, to be settling among the duller, greater people.

"Bertie will be home to-morrow. I want to leave the flat, to come more west. It's poky, horribly stuffy. If—we could afford to." Esmé crumbled her toast, looked almost sullenly at Denise.

"But could you? And it's such a dear little flat. Could you afford it, Esmé dear? You are so comfy there."

The butler brought in the evening papers. Before they settled to play bridge Sir Cyril opened them.

"Why, Mrs Carteret," he said, "this is awful about your cousins surely. The two Carteret boys have both been killed in a motor accident. It makes Bertie heir, I suppose, but what a tragedy."

Esmé caught at the paper and read it feverishly. "To the title," she said. "It's entailed. Hugh Carteret can leave his money as he chooses—unless we have children." But she knew what a difference it must make.

"You'll have to follow my example and have an heir now," laughed Denise. "To make it all certain. Eh, Esmé?"

Esmé sat with the paper in her hands and did not answer.

CHAPTER VII

Spring rioting, chill and bleak, crushing the coming summer in its impish hands. A day when cold came creeping under doors, sat even by the fire and would not be denied.

Looking into her draped glass Esmé was struck by new lines in her face, by a loss of her dazzling youth, by a tired look in her eyes. Discontent, weariness, were writing their names on her skin.

Bertie would be home early. She had been lazy and not gone to the ship to meet him. He was coming to breakfast, the fires were smouldering in the sitting-room, the new housemaid reasonably desirous of "gaus." Esmé, in her prettiest wrapper, shivered and grew irritable. She had ordered an elaborate breakfast, but the new cook was a failure; the fish was sodden, the bacon half raw, the hot bread mere heated bakers' scones.

Esmé recalled the breakfasts at Coombe Regis, at Harlands. She flung out at the maids. Ordered new dishes angrily. Oh, it was hateful not to have things right. Her old gaiety had left her. She would have laughed a year ago and boiled eggs on a spirit lamp. Bertie at last, running up, catching her in his arms, holding her close.

"Esmé, my dear old butterfly. My sweetheart. Oh, it's good to be back again here with you. Breakfast, Es, I'm starving."

So big and boyish and loving. She clung to him and found discontent even there. She had cheated her man. There was a secret to be hidden from him for ever. And where were all the comforts she had dreamt of with her income? Where were they?

"Breakfast." Esmé rang the bell.

"Cook is grilling the bacon, mem. It will take ten minutes." So Bertie had to wait, and then eat cold eggs and burnt bacon, and drink stewed tea. But he was happy.

"Extravagance," he said. "My silken-winged butterfly, that's a new gown of fluff and laces."

"You don't expect me to have all last year's, do you?" Esmé almost snapped, then leant against him. He held her closely, loving the warm suppleness of her body, the scent of her burnished hair, his lips were hot on the satin smoothness of her skin.

"But, Es sweetheart, you're thinner," he whispered, "and looking sadly. We'll have a week away, just you and I, in Paris. You must be rich now with no house all this winter."

Esmé slipped away from him and fidgeted as she lighted a cigarette.

"Oh, Bertie, you've seen about the accident. You're heir now."

"The place is entailed," he said. "It's worth nothing. But the old man's money is his own. He may leave it to me. If we had a boy he might, no doubt he would."

Esmé flushed scarlet, turning away. The cold day grew colder. Try as she would, the old happy intimacy, their careless happy youth, would not come back. Before, she had told Bertie everything. Now if he knew, if he knew.

Her husband seemed to have grown older, graver, to be less boyish. He talked of one or two things as extravagant. They discussed Aldershot and he spoke of lodgings. Houses were impossible there.

Esmé grew petulant. Lodgings, she had seen them. Chops for dinner and cold meat and salad for lunch. They must find a house. They'd heaps of money.

They went out to luncheon, telephoned a table at the Berkeley, ordered their favourite dishes recklessly. Esmé came down in the Paris coat, open to show the blue and silver lining.

"Butterfly! What a coat," her husband exclaimed at its beauty. "Where did you get it?"

Esmé hesitated, told half the truth.

"Denise gave it to me," she said slowly. "You see I did a lot for her."

Bertie was his old self then, foolishly merry. They must go up Bond Street and order a limousine to go with the coat. It couldn't sit in taxis. When it was off in the restaurant he saw the cunning beauty of a Paris frock, a black one, the old pendant of emeralds gleaming against real lace.

It was too cold, too bitter to walk about. They rang up friends, played bridge. Esmé ordered dinner at the flat, asked Dolly to come down and bring a man, then telephoned imperiously to the new cook.

"Dinner for four, order what you want. It must be nice, remember. It must be. Get some forced things, sweets, have salmon. Use your wits."

"It is a dear little hole. I'll be sorry to leave it," Bertie said, as they came back to the brightly-lighted little drawing-room. "Why do you want to, girlie?"

"It's so out of the way," Esmé grumbled.

The new maid put her into a dress of clinging black. One must mourn for first cousins.

Dolly was full of curiosity. Bertie was heir now. It was quite a change. "So nice, dear Esmé, to come to one of your wonderful little dinners again."

The only wonder of this dinner was its expense. The new cook had gone to Harrod's stores, chosen everything which cost money. Tinned turtle soup, plain boiled salmon, tinned and truffled entrée, tinned chicken, and a bought sweet.

Esmé grew angrier as it went on. Hated the guests' lack of appetite, their polite declaimers as she abused her food.

"I begin to hate this place," Esmé stormed to Dolly. "It's too small, good servants won't come here. Hardness was a good chance. She's gone to Denise Blakeney now, she can afford to pay her what she wanted, I couldn't."

Cards too went against Esmé. She lost and lost again, made declarations which depended on luck, and found it desert her. They did not play for high points, but she made side bets, and it mounted up. She cut with Bertie, saw his eyebrows raise as she went a reckless no trumper.

"My dear, what had you got?" he asked.

"Oh, a king and ace. I expected something above a ten from you, Bertie."

The Midshires were coming to Aldershot at once. Esmé had never been with the regiment. She did not want to leave London. She coaxed Bertie next day. Why not wait for another adjutancy, leave her in the flat, he could come up so often.

But the very weapons she used turned against her, the caress of her lips, her clinging arms were not things to leave. No, she must come to Aldershot. They would find a house and be happy there.

"And the bills, sweetheart?" Bertie Carteret had always seen to them. "I suppose you paid up all the old ones so we'll start fresh."

Esmé had forgotten her bills. She was irritable over money, cried out that her husband had learnt miser's thoughts in South Africa. "You fell in love with a good housewife there, Bert," she mocked, "who fried the cold potatoes of overnight for breakfast. Come, confess.... We've heaps of money to be foolish on, don't bother."

"There was never a penny left over," he said. "If we were sick, or if, well, anything happened we had no margin." Esmé frowned sullenly.

Two hours later she was rung up at her club.

"Esmé, I've seen Uncle Hugh, he wired for me. He is going to live in London, and he wants to make arrangements. Meet me at once. Where? Oh, the Carlton will do."

Erratically dreaming of riches Esmé left a game of bridge and flew off to the big restaurant. It was crowded for tea-time, people gathering at the little tables. The cold air called for furs. Their rich softness was everywhere, and among them all Esmé felt her coat attracted admiring eyes. Over her black dress, the blue lining brilliant over the dark, with her hair massed against a dead black hat, Esmé was remarkable.

"An actress?" she heard a woman ask. What Esmé would call a stodgy woman, expensively dressed, a country cousin with a London friend.

"No, a Mrs Carteret, remarkable-looking, isn't she?"

"Well, Bertie. What is it?" Esmé could scarcely wait as her husband ordered tea. "What has Uncle Hugh done?"

"Well, nothing. It is all for your approval, but Uncle Hugh is lonely. He wants his nephew to live near him. There is a great deal of business to see to. The Seaford estate and the Devonshire place, he farmed both. Uncle Hugh found the journeying trying." Briefly, he offered to pay Bertie the same pay as he had drawn from the Army, together with travelling expenses, if he would stay in London and go down to these places when necessary. No more.

"He hasn't promised to leave you the money then?" Esmé asked. "Oh, it suits me splendidly, I hated leaving town."

"No." Bertie Carteret shook his head. "He has promised me nothing, merely that I shall not lose through leaving the Army, nothing more."

Esmé grew angry then, abused the rich old man, forgot his trouble in her annoyance.

"He has so much. Why should we starve now when we are young?" she flashed.

"We have never quite starved, Es." Bertie Carteret laughed, then looked grave. "I thought we were so comfortable, so happy."

"One seems to want more and more as one lives in town." Esmé looked sullen. She too had thought the same, less than a year ago. Been so sure of it that she hated the thought of the third being who would have disturbed their peace. And now with so much more money she seemed poorer.

"That is a wonderful coat." Bertie looked admiringly at his wife. "You're wonderful altogether, Esmé, this time. With the stamp of Paris on your frocks. But of course Denise gave you heaps of things. You did a lot for her."

Esmé began to plan, to grow brighter. "We must take a little house, Bertie, get away from that box, nearer our friends."

"But we shall be no better off," he said.

"Oh, you must get money out of the old man. We'll save the rent on taxis. Who is it, Bertie?"

For Bertie had jumped up and was shaking hands with a slim girl of about twenty. Brown-haired, grey-eyed, pretty in a quiet way.

"It's Miss Reynolds," he said. "Miss Reynolds, Esmé. Mrs Reynolds was so kind to me at Pretoria when I was ill."

"Ill!" Esmé held out a jewelled hand. "I thought it was only repentance and indigestion."

"It was fever." Estelle Reynolds's voice was slow and musical, restful as her gentle face. "Captain Carteret was very ill, and my uncle tried to cure him."

"No idea," said Esmé. "I'd no idea. But so good of you.... Bertie, you should have told me." She was honestly fond of her husband.

"He did not want to worry you," said Estelle Reynolds.

Carteret was impressively glad to see Estelle. He talked eagerly of a dinner, a theatre.

His eagerness vexed his wife. She got up, dazzlingly handsome in her furs, the emeralds gleaming on her black gown.

"So sorry, Bertie, but this week is quite full, every day. Come to luncheon on Sunday, Miss Reynolds. I'll have some people to meet you."

Estelle laughed pleasantly. "My Sunday will be a country cousin's," she said. "Church, a very short luncheon, and the Albert Hall. You see, I've never been to London before." The girl looked a little hurt, a little snubbed.

"And I said I'd show it to you." Carteret let his wife walk on. "I'm not engaged. Let me take you and your aunt to Daly's to-night and on to the Savoy."

"Comic opera." Estelle shook her brown head. "If it might be the Shakespearian piece at His Majesty's. I should love to come."

It did not seem to suggest itself to Estelle to ask if Bertie Carteret's wife might wish to include him in her engagements. Esmé was one of those women who seem to stand alone.

"Very well then. I'll get seats at once," he said.

Making his way past little tables to the passage down the centre of the restaurant, Bertie stood for a moment looking from one woman to another.

Estelle Reynolds had gone back to her tea. She was not remarkable in any way, merely a rather dowdy girl sitting alone at a little table. Esmé had stopped to speak to friends near the door. She was brilliantly handsome, flashing out gay smiles, the mirthless smile of society, and splendidly dressed. As it grew thinner her face gave promise of hardness; she had replaced her lost colour very cunningly with some rose bloom. Carteret followed her slowly. He loved his wife, her touch, a look from her blue eyes always had power to move him, but he realized suddenly that she was too brilliant, too well-dressed for a foot-soldier's wife.

She was talking to Luke Holbrook, smiling at him, but the smile had lost its girlish charm; the kindly man who had been willing to help a young couple not well off had no idea of losing money to this brilliant woman.

Holbrook was always simply open as to his trade.

"I didn't forget your bundle of wines, fairest lady, they went on to-day." Mr Holbrook started and put up his glasses. "My love," he said, turning to his wife, "I see Lord Boredom taking tea with Miss Moover, and Mr Critennery is over there alone. My love, I fear I did not advance our interests by that most unfortunate invitation."

"The Duchess," said Mrs Holbrook, "will have a stroke. No one ever broke Miss Mavis Moover's occupation to her Grace."

"Ready, Esmé? You want a taxi back. Very well." Carteret went to the door. Before he had gone away Esmé had been quite content to take the motor 'bus which set them nearly at their door, or to go by tube. He sighed a little as he feed the gigantic person who hailed the cab for him.

"They've either come into some money, my love, or it is the Italian Prince whom Dollie Cavendish hints at," said Luke Holbrook, thoughtfully.

"What a dowdy little friend," yawned Esmé as they sped down Piccadilly. "What clothes, Bertie. I could only ask her to a frumpy luncheon."

"They were very good to me out there," he said quickly. "And ... I did not notice Miss Reynolds's dowdiness."

"No, one wouldn't. She is the kind of thing who goes with dowdiness. All flat hair and plaintive eyes." Esmé laughed. "Is she the good housekeeper who made you careful, Bertie? Eh?"

He looked out without answering. Something was coming between him and his wife. A rift, opening slowly in the groundwork of their love and happiness. She had changed.

Carteret's papers went in. They settled in London. Esmé looked for a house, fretting because she could not find one they could afford. Esmé often fretted as cold March was pushed away by April. She was restless, never quiet, unable to spend an hour at home by herself. Everything seemed to cost more than it had. People gave up the little kindnesses which she had counted. She was not paid for at theatres, nor sent flowers and fruit.

"The Carterets must have come into money," people said carelessly. "Esmé's simply gorgeously clothed, and they're looking for a house. Of course he's heir to old Hugh's place now."

More than once Bertie included Estelle Reynolds in their parties. She came, enjoying everything almost childishly; never tired of looking at the London streets with their roaring traffic. Hanging on every word at theatres, openly delighted with the dishes at smart restaurants.

"Everyone is so rich here," said Estelle in wonder. "They pay and pay and pay all round us."

They were lunching at Jules, and Esmé had carelessly ordered one or two things out of season. Estelle had watched the gold coins put on the folded bill.

"You would not be so extravagant, I imagine," Esmé laughed. She neither liked nor disliked the quiet girl, even found her useful now to do forgotten errands at the shops, to write her letters for her while Esmé lounged back smoking, to go off in the rain for a book which must be read immediately. For, wanting anything, Esmé could never wait. She snapped at her share of life, to fling it away barely tasted. Estelle came oftener and oftener to the flat. Settled flowers, put out sweets for dinner, had the bridge tables ready, and then went away. She was always useful, always willing to help.

"Extravagant!" Estelle answered. "No, I'd lunch at home."

"Off chops and fried potatoes," said Esmé, taking asparagus.

"If you go to the Club mankind invariably lunches off chops and steak," broke in Bertie. "Women are the lovers of fluffy dishes; they please 'em, I suppose, as new dresses do, because poor people can't have them."

"Estelle would lunch at home," laughed Esmé, "and go in a 'bus to see the shops in Regent Street, or perhaps to the National Gallery or the White City, and come home to make a new savoury which she had seen in Home Instructions, and do her accounts after dinner. Eh, little home bird?"

"Yes," said Estelle, simply. "Only I wouldn't live in London at all. I would make the country my stable meal, my chops and fried potatoes, and London my occasional savoury bonne bouche. I should choke in a town."

Esmé laughed. "How absurd," she flashed out. "Now, be good children. I go to sell pieces of cloth at completely ruinous prices to aid something in distress. I know not what."

"Shall I take you home, Estelle?" Carteret stood looking out into the sunshine. "Lord, what I'd give to live in the country. To see green fields all round and have a horse or two in the winter, and laze over a big log fire when the day was done. But somehow, here, there is never an hour to laze in."

Hugh Carteret, grief stricken, had so far not seen his nephew's wife. Bertie was doing his work, going down occasionally to see the big places and look over the accounts with the stewards.

About a month after he had come back from South Africa, Esmé's first reckoning for extravagance was upon her. Unpaid accounts littered the table. Harrod's deposit was overdrawn. She sat frowning and petulant, as Bertie jotted down totals.

"We can't do it, Esmé; there are all the old bills left unpaid. We managed so well before."

Esmé smoked furiously, flung the thin papers about. People were robbers, her cook a fool.

"But we are not often in. You weren't even at home. It's beyond one, Butterfly; debt won't do. And then your frocks and frills."

"I can pay for those," Esmé was going to say, then stopped. How much of her five hundred, her scant allowance, had she anticipated. Then there would be a visit to Scotland, and she wanted to hunt. She could not spare much of it; fifty of it must go to the French dressmaker, another fifty to a jeweller. "Oh, it's sickening," she flung out in sudden petulant anger. "Sickening. Poverty is too hateful."

Bertie had to listen to an outburst of grumbling, of fretful wrath, because their income was not double its size. To be pinched, cramped when one was young, to be worried by bills, bothered by meannesses.

Bertie Carteret's face grew pale. He stood up, gathering the bills. "I had no idea that you were unhappy, Es," he said slowly. "We used to manage so well before I left. It was all sunshine then. I have some money I can dig out; we'll pay the bills and start again. Give me all yours to see."

Indulgence made Esmé penitent, almost grateful. That was right. Now Bertie was a dear, a sweet old boy. And they'd have a lovely summer, just as last year's had been.

She came over and sat on Bertie's knee, her face pressed against his, the perfume of her golden hair in his nostrils.

But with her soft arm about his neck, her supple body in his arms, Bertie Carteret did not hold her closer; she missed his quick sigh at her contact, the hotness of his kisses on her neck.

"Bertie, dear old Bert."

But as she moved her face a little he could see between him and the light the skilfully-applied red on her cheeks, the coating of powder round it. It was not love for him which brought her to him, but selfish relief at being released from worry. "Poor Butterfly," he said, kissing her gently. "It shall flutter through its summer. But spent capital means less income, Esmé, remember that."

"Oh, here's the wine account." He sighed again, looking at it. Esmé ran her finger down the items, there were no wholesale prices now. The hock was at its full value, the bill a heavy one. Jumping up, she railed at Luke Holbrook, called him traitor and mean and treacherous. Swore that if she could help it he would not get his peerage.

"The lilies and carnations, madam," said the tall maid, coming in with a bundle of flowers.

"Leave them there, Miss Reynolds will settle them for me, she is coming to lunch. And your Uncle Hugh, Bertie, I had forgotten."

"You'll have to take to cheaper flowers," said Carteret; "after all, they wither just as soon."

"I cannot skimp over flowers, Bert, I cannot." Esmé went off to dress.

"What could she skimp over?" Bertie wondered.

Estelle Reynolds came in quietly, smiled good morning, began quite naturally to get the vases ready. "How glorious they are," she said, as she put the long-stemmed forced carnations into slender silver vases. "They must cost a fortune now."

"They do." Bertie was writing to his broker. "They do, Estelle. Everything costs a fortune here just now. But we must come to the humble sweet peas next week, or something of its class. What a housekeeper you would make, Estelle."

"Would I?" She hid the pain in her soft grey eyes, turned suddenly away. One of the foolish women whose joy lies in sacrifice, who find stupid satisfaction in balanced accounts, in saving for the man who works for them, who in some mysterious way stretches the weekly allowance when the children come, and finds only happiness in the giving up to do it. A homely little brown thrush, looking, wondering at a world of gay-plumaged songless birds.

"I." Estelle's eyes were under her control again. She smiled bravely. "I am one of the dowdy people who like to mess in the kitchen and dust, value a pleasure for what it costs ... it's childish."

"The fault of the world's inhabitants is that they are stamping out childishness," he said slowly. "They have forgotten to take joy in blue skies and green fields because it costs them nothing to look at them; they are forgetting how to enjoy themselves except in herds. If we have Irish stew at a shooting lunch it must be spoilt by half a dozen expensive flavourings lest my Lady Sue or Madame Sally should say we are so poor that we can only afford mutton and potatoes and onions. Even the children must have tea at Charbonel's and sweets from Buzzard or Fuller, though possibly a packet of butterscotch or home-made toffee would be much more to their taste...."

Estelle laughed.

"I took the Handelle children out last week," she said. "Their mother asked me to—you remember you took me once there to sing and she's been kind to me—and we went on the top of a 'bus, and had tea at Lyon's, bought flowers at Piccadilly Circus, and oh, they did enjoy themselves, but Lady Eva was quite shocked."

"Oh, Estelle, thank you." Esmé came back, radiant in clinging black, the emeralds shining at her bare throat, a big hat framing her face.

Hugh Carteret came just then. An old man, deep lines of sorrow drawn on his face, shrinking visibly from any allusion to his loss, suffering from the grief which finds no relief in words. He was cold before Esmé's gush of greeting, looked at her critically and made scant response to her smiles.

"It was so good of him to come, they were hidden away down here. And oh, they did want to change and get a house farther west."

"Why not then?" Hugh Carteret asked.

"The dreadful rents," Esmé answered. "We can't afford it. And we do want to move. The flat is so stuffy, so small."

"It seems big enough for two," Colonel Carteret answered, looking hard at Esmé. "Of course, if you had children I could understand."

"Oh, we couldn't afford children," she said, flinging a wistful note in her voice. And one not altogether feigned, for as she spoke she remembered the boy who was growing strong in the nursery at Grosvenor Square.

"Mrs Gresham," announced the maid.

"I'd no idea it was a party." Colonel Carteret looked at his black clothes and spoke reproachfully.

"It wasn't. Dollie Gresham was not asked, uncle."

Dollie made it plain in a minute. She knew Esmé was at home; she'd asked the maid and she came along.

"It's about a bazaar, Esmé. I want someone to help me to get one up for that new little hospital. Denise Blakeney would help Susie Handelle. We'd run it, you and I."

Through an elaborate, expensive lunch old Colonel Carteret was almost silent. The vol au vent of truffled chicken had given way for forced fruit before Estelle got him to talk to her. He thawed before her gentle voice, a shy, troubled old man, numbed still by his loss. His boys had been his all. He could not realize that they had left him. He had saved, planned, improved for Cyril and George; now mechanically, because the places were there, he carried it on. He had seen very little of Esmé; until his boys' deaths he had been wrapped up in them, never mixing in Society. Now he looked at the expensive flowers in Venetian glasses; he tasted elaborate made dishes, forced fruits, ices, and once or twice he shook his head as if at some inward thoughts.

Dollie Gresham chattered of her bazaar. It was just the time for one, they would start it at once. Restlessly energetic, she went to the telephone after luncheon, rang up Denise Blakeney.

"Yes, Denise will help sell. Only think, Esmé"—this after a long pause—"Sir Cyril's given her another car, and that diamond pendant of old Lady Gilby's, you know, the one he was selling. Since that boy came"—Dollie hung up the receiver—"Denise gets all she wants, and a great deal more. She is simply, tiresomely happy, adores dear Cyril, and has a convenient memory for the past. Tiens, such is life."

Esmé's face was set, sullen, as she listened. Denise had everything. Denise was not generous; there were so many things which she could have given, yet the very tie between the two women seemed to destroy their old friendship.

In the flower-decked, richly-furnished little drawing-room old Hugh Carteret talked to Estelle. He looked bewildered, puzzled.

"Bertie told me they were not rich," he said. "Yet the place seems to me to be almost too luxurious, that they lack nothing."

"I think"—Estelle fidgeted a little, her grey eyes distressed—"that Esmé is very young, that she perhaps grasps at things, so to speak, perhaps spends a little more than she ought to."

"I am a judge of wines." Hugh Carteret nodded. "The hock was one of the best, the old brandy cost fourteen or fifteen shillings a bottle, the port was vintage. I tasted them all." He shook his head again.

Esmé, coming in, sat by him, tried every trick she knew of winning glance and smile. But her childish charm had left her; she could only hark back to her poverty, to her want of money, and each half-veiled appeal left the old man silent.

"You present-day women want too much," he said quietly. "You won't be content. You live too much for yourselves; if you had children now"—he stopped, his voice breaking. "I tell you what," he said, "if you are really hard up you can have Cliff End rent free. It's lovely there, close to the sea, and the staghounds to hunt with."

Esmé knew where it was, an old house croaking on the cliffs of Devon, near a country town, a place without society, without amusements. She shivered.

"It would be too big for us," she said, trying to speak gratefully. "Far too large to keep up; but thank you greatly, dear uncle."

"And too far from shopland," he said in his shy, shrewd way. "Yes, well, my dear, it was a mere idea."

"He'll do nothing for us, old miser," Esmé flung out in anger almost before the old man had left. "He is hateful, Bertie, your old uncle."

"Perhaps, looking round him, he does not think there is much to be done," said Bertie, drily. "I am very fond of old Uncle Hugh."

They drove up to Grosvenor Gate, strolled into the Park—the April day had tempted people out there; the beds were a glory of wall-flowers and spring bulbs. A green limousine, purring silently, pulled up close to them. Esmé turned swiftly; it held Lady Blakeney and the nurse, who carried an elaborately-dressed bundle of babyhood.

"Wait here." Denise, jumping out lightly, ran across to speak to friends. She was radiant, brilliant in her happiness, a woman without sufficient brain to feel remorse.

"Oh, Mrs Stanson, let me see him."

Esmé went to the side of the car; she had not dared lately to go up to the nursery at Grosvenor Square. Denise had forbidden it.

Mrs Stanson got down, holding the rosy, healthy boy; he chuckled, his blue eyes blinking, a picture of contented, soft-fleshed, mindless life. His mittened fingers closed round Esmé's as she looked into his face. Hers this healthy atom—hers, and Denise was rich, happy, contented because of him, while she, his mother, wanted everything.

"What a lovely mite." Bertie Carteret bent over the smiling baby. "He's got eyes of your colour, Esmé, true forget-me-nots."

"Yes. You do mind him well, nurse. Her ladyship—"

"It was great coaxing to get her ladyship to bring him out to-day," the woman said carelessly. "She's not like you, Mrs Carteret; she doesn't like these small things."

"Oh, yes, Esmé"—Denise came back—"looking at the Baa. He's a fine specimen, isn't he? Cyril gives him this car for himself, and a new one to me. Come and see me soon, won't you? Lancaster Gate, Hillyard—Lady Mary Graves's house. Bundle in that infant, Mrs Stanson, and if he cries I get out."

The car glided on. Esmé watched it going, with a sullen anger at her heart; she had to clench her hands to keep quiet. Did Denise never think? Had she no gratitude—no conscience—no regret for her successful fraud? None, it would seem.

"Esmé, you look quite white." Dollie Gresham's spiteful little giggle rang out close by. "Are you coming on to play bridge with me?"

"Not to-day, Dollie. I've a shocking headache. I'll go home and rest."

"It must be bad," said Dollie, "to take you to your fireside. Was the sight of that wonderful son and heir too much for you?—that Bayard among babies? Sans peur et sans reproche."

"You do look seedy, child." Bertie took Esmé to the gate and drove her back.

She lighted the gas stove—the flat teemed in labour-saving annoyances—and sat by it, the heat making the perfume of the flowers almost overpowering.

Bertie got her hot tea, sat with her, some of the old loving comradeship springing up between them.

"That little chap made me envious, Es," he said, after a long silence.

"Bertie—surely you wouldn't like a child?" Esmé's voice rang shrilly. "Surely you wouldn't. Coming to disturb us, crippling us!"

"People manage," he said slowly. "They manage. We could have gone out of London, lived more quietly. Every man wants his son, Butterfly; they are selfish people, you know."

"You'd like one?" The shrillness died out of Esmé's voice, it grew strained.

"And after all better spend money on a little chap than waste it on Holbrook's wines and old brandies," he said. "Yes, it's the one thing I've wanted, Es—just to make our lives perfect. Monsieur, Madame, et Bebe; marriage is never quite right until the third comes to show a selfish pair what their fathers and mothers gave up for them."

"I thought two people were so much happier alone." Esmé stared into the glowing, companionless fire, with no crackle of coal or hiss of wood, but the modern maid objects to blacking grates.

"Well, sweetheart, some day you'll know better," he said, "perhaps." The maid brought in the evening paper, laying it on the table.

"Esmé!" Bertie Carteret jumped up. "Young De Vinci is dead—dead of pneumonia."

Death of the Earl of De Vinci on the eve of his marriage. Then Esmé caught the paper. "Is Uncle Hugh next heir—didn't you tell me so?"

"Uncle Hugh is Lord De Vinci, and if he does not marry again, a remote contingency, I'm the next heir. A son, Esmé, is a necessity now."

Esmé put the paper down. Her son, heir to a title, was at Sir Cyril Blakeney's house and she could not claim him.

"Bertie"—she walked restlessly about the room—"I heard such a strange story the other day, a woman who did something hideously dreadful and—was afraid to tell."

"Deceit is the one thing I could never forgive," said Carteret, firmly. "I'd put a woman away, even if it broke my heart, if I found out that she had done anything mean or had deceived me."

Esmé grew white, for hers was a plot which no man could forgive. She had sold her son for a paltry allowance, for the right to amuse herself in peace.

"I wonder if old Uncle Hugh will do anything for us now," she said in a strained, bitter voice.

CHAPTER VIII

"This bazaar," said Dollie Gresham, cheerily, "is humming. I have not been asked about as much as I should like to be lately; people forget poor little nobodies. The Duchess is giving her patronage, entre nous. Mavis Moover will dance for me—joy for her Grace of Boredom! Oh, I've got heaps and heaps of people! We are secretaries, and cashiers, and so forth, and we shall all wear flower dresses. Our stall shall be forget-me-nots. The Duchess chose tulips; she said she had a black silk gown and she knew there was a tulip of that colour. We shall be audaciously beautiful in sky blue, rather short."

Esmé had rushed into this new scheme.

"It won't cost much, will it?" she asked.

"Secretaries, workers, chérie," prattled Dollie, "have all expenses paid. All frocks, frills, etc.; they give their valuable time. Come with me to Claire's. She is at least original."

Dollie's maid brought in two cards. Mrs Gresham frowned over them.

"The tiresome secretary of the hospital," she said, "and Canon Bright, one of the founders. Look charitable, Esmé."

Next moment, all smiles, she greeted a kindly-looking, middle-aged man and a grey-haired clergyman; a stern-faced, clear-eyed man, who made this hospital for little suffering children his hobby.

They overwhelmed Dollie with thanks.

"This debt"—Canon Bright took out some notes of figures—"was weighing us down. Now, with your help, it will be paid off, and we shall have something besides to go on with, to buy sorely-needed appliances."

"Oh, of course," said Dollie, vaguely.

"We were looking for some kind lady or society to take it up; fortunately you met Mr Lucy at luncheon."

"Yes; that put it into my head," said Dollie, brightly. "Bazaars are so paying; this is my friend and sister secretary, Mrs Carteret. I've got every big name in London, Canon, or half of them. Oh, it will be a great success. We've taken the hall. We're all going to be summer flowers. 'The Summer Flower Bazaar,' such a good name, isn't it?"

Mr Lucy nursed his hat. "You won't let the expenses mount, Mrs Gresham," he said, "will you? Once they begin to swell our cripples would lose. You'll let me help you with the accounts. It's my métier, you see, and I could help you."

Dollie chilled visibly. She preferred to do it all herself, she said. "We really want to work," she went on, smiling again. "After all, it's quite simple. We have all our cheques paid in and we pay the exes and hand you the balance. We'll work it up like anything. You get all your people to come, Canon—all your charitable friends. The dear little cripples," cooed Dolly—"so nice to help them."

"Tiresome, muddling pair," she snapped when the two men had left. "Come to Claire's, Esmé. I owe her two hundred, but these flower dresses will cool her rage, and she'll know we'll pay for this lot all right."

Claire received them dubiously, then thawed to the order for the bazaar. If Mrs Gresham could get her the carnation order also, Lady Louisa's stall, and the roses. Forget-me-nots, by the way, were spring flowers.

Oh, it didn't matter. Clouds of gauze, blue satin, wreaths of flowers stiffened with turquoises, shoes, stockings. Dollie ordered lavishly.

"That Estelle girl shall help," Esmé said. "She is the kind of person who'll open boxes and get dusty and save us trouble. By the way, what shall we sell? Not tea. One has to run about. Sweets, I should think, and buttonholes."

"We are not distinguished enough for buttonholes," said Dollie, decidedly. "When Adolfus or Gargie buys a white pink for five shillings he likes to tell mamma and his lady friend that the Countess of 'Ighlife pinned it in with her own fingers, Vilet, her very own. Dolfus does not seem to realize that the use of other people's would be confusing. No, let it be sweets. Chocolates will show off our blue frocks."

Bertie Carteret found himself left more and more alone. Esmé was always feverishly busy, always just going on somewhere, chasing pleasure, growing thinner in the pursuit, using just a little more rose bloom, a little extra powder to hide jaded lines and fading colour.

At the end of May Bertie paid his household bills again and knew that they were far too large. No extravagance seemed to have been curtailed; if they had not lunched or dined so often at home, he had paid for a score of meals at fashionable restaurants. Esmé's careless demands for a few pounds for cabs were endless.

"I can't do it," he muttered, writing his cheques. "I can't get on."

A plea to Esmé would only make her sullen, irritable, railing at her poverty, muttering against poor marriages.

"I—oh, you are alone. I've brought the book which Esmé asked me for." Estelle Reynolds came on Bertie as he sighed over his bills. "And the pearls she left to be mended."

She put down a new novel on the table, one barred by libraries. Esmé would look at it, probably forget to finish it, unless she thought she found any of her friends were pilloried between the flaring green covers.

Estelle put down a receipt with the pearls, one for two pounds. Bertie looked at the amount.

"Has Esmé paid you?" he asked.

"Oh, no, it does not matter—any time." Estelle blushed. "I can ask her."

"I wonder"—he turned—"how much she has let you pay, this careless wife of mine. For the future, Estelle, bring anything to me."

"You seem to have enough to pay for." Estelle pointed to a pile of books and cheques.

"Too much! More than I can manage. Estelle, is nothing of value unless it costs money? Must one always lunch and dine and sup with people whose daily income equals our half-yearly one? Can a woman ever look well in a frock which costs less than twenty pounds? Oh, one must go to so-and-so—everyone does. Is there nothing simple left in life?" said Bertie, drearily. "No pleasure in a corner of the country where a man could pay his way honestly, and eat strawberries in June and peaches in August?"

"Is it as bad as that?" Estelle came to the table, glanced at some of the books.

She was a slight girl, with nothing but her grey eyes redeeming her from mediocrity.

Bertie Carteret sat opposite a full-length portrait of his wife. It was tinted, showing her dazzling colouring, her rounded figure. It stared at him with Esmé's careless, joyous smile. Never yet, when he had touched her, had the softness of her ivory neck, the warmth of her white skin, failed to wake passion in him, make him wax to the heat of love, melting and desiring. So she had won his heart when he met her in the country, the beauty of a small military station, a doctor's daughter, well born, but dowerless, bringing beauty alone as her marriage portion. Her beauty, her joyous love of life, had won her a niche in London Society. Friends had given her introductions, and Esmé had grown into the life as a graft grows to the parent stem.

What poet has written that each woman is a flower with its characteristics, its scent, or beauty?

Was not this wife of his a gorgeous sunflower, turning her head to the light and warmth of amusement, standing out among her fellows, dazzling as she caught the light, a thing to look at and admire, but not to bend one's face over drinking in a rare sweet perfume.

Now that he sat thinking he knew there had been none of the intimacy of married lovers; no scheming for their dual interests, no planning of some little trip to be taken together, none of the talks which wed man and woman more surely than the service ordained by law. Nothing but love and laughter. Together, with the world shut out, Bertie must not talk of ordinary things, but of Esmé. She would lean against him, exquisite, perfect, silken draperies merely veiling her long, rounded limbs, and he must talk of her alone. Tell her again and again how beautiful she was; find new perfection in her golden hair, her bright cheeks, the curves of her beauty.

Then in the mornings, when there was an hour before they need get up, when Esmé had put on a lace cap and got into some soft-hued wrapper, she would chatter gaily, but never of their future, of the home which Bertie, man-like, dreamt of; but of the day's doings, of luncheon and tea and dinner and theatre, of flying from place to place, from friend to friend.

"The Holbrooks are sending their small car for me to do my shopping in; aren't they kind, Bert? Lady Sue sent us a big basket of fruit yesterday for my little dinner. We've such heaps to do, Bertie, to-day—such heaps!"

She would stretch her warm limbs in the luxurious joy of being alive, the joy of youth and strength and happiness.

There were no kisses in the morning. Marie had already laved Madame's face in scented water, and rubbed in Madame's face cream to prepare her skin for its light dust of powder.

Sometimes, half shyly, Bertie would try to talk of the future, say they could not always live in the army.

"There are such dear little places to be found, Es"—he used to study advertisements—"just big enough. We could keep a horse or two, a garden—be so happy!"

"And become cabbages ourselves. Play bridge with the parson and his wife, and go to summer tennis-parties with two men and forty maids. London, my Bertie, it's the only place for poor people. The country is all very well if you need never stay there, but to grow rooted to garden soil! Boo! I'll get you on! You shall be a General and inspect armies."

Bertie gave up his dream of a little house in the country; he got used to the careless, ever-moving life. And now he sickened of it.

If women were flowers, this woman standing near him was a violet, a simple thing, only beautiful to those who love sweetness better than flaring beauty.

"You're worried," she said. "Where is Esmé?"

"Esmé is out for the day," he said.

"Then you've often promised me an outing. Come and be a cheap tripper with me; let it be my treat. I got a cheque from mother yesterday. I'm rich. Let's pretend we're very poor, and enjoy ourselves. You mustn't sit there brooding."

Bertie put away the books, laughed up at the gentle face. He would, but he must pay half.

The May day was theirs; they would enjoy it as two children.

They would take a 'bus, lunch, go to the White City, see how economy can be practised.

They lunched at a little restaurant in Germain Street, studying the menu with puckered brows, taking omelette and a grill which they could share, and biscuits and cheese, and light white wine.

The amount of a bill which would not have covered tips at the Berkeley or the Ritz was gaily paid.

Bertie saw a new side to Estelle's character; the childish power of enjoyment. Take a taxi? No! Taxis were for the rich. They sat on the top of a motor 'bus, going down roaring Piccadilly.

Esmé, coming to the door of the Berkeley, happened to look up at the packed mass of humanity seated on the monster's head.

"Bertie!" she flashed out, mockingly, "and the South African girl. Bertie happily saving his pennies and seeing London. Oh! how funny."

She forgot that a year ago she had often gone in a 'bus with him.

There were only taxis in the world for her now, or motors. The little electric carriages were so cheap to hire. Esmé's bill at the nearest garage was running up rapidly. "It was such a 'bore' to look for a taxi in the evenings; this was ready and took one on to supper or ball, and back again, and cost very little more," she would say.

Bertie had not seen his wife. He sat enjoying the sunshine, looking down at the packed streets, as the 'bus slipped through the traffic—past Grosvenor Gate, on to the London which is not London to Society, but merely "down in Kensington," into the vast grounds of the Exhibition, to play as children might have played. To rock on switchbacks, taking the front seat for the heart-sinking glides and dips; to come foolishly down watershutes; to slide on mats round perilous curves; to go and laugh at themselves in ridiculous mirrors. And then with an aftermath of seriousness to look at the quaint buildings of Shakespeare's time, and talk of the dead master of the drama.

Estelle had read every play; she could quote aptly, talk of those which she had seen.

"He had one fault," she said. "His good women were mawkish fools; his villainesses splendidly lovable. It was the spirit of the age, no doubt, that to be good one must be a mere loving nonentity, that brains led the feminine world to destruction."

If the world would but hang out warnings to the blind mortals who scurry through its maze, seeking for openings, or shouting, laughing, as they go; if we knew that an hour hence our life's history would change, and that a refusal to go to lunch, a turning up one corner instead of another, would leave it as it was, would it be better for us?

If Bertie Carteret, talking eagerly, almost boyishly, with a new interest in words, had realized that the turnstile of the Exhibition was taking him into a land of pain and regret, would he have seen the warning, laughed, or turned back? He had passed through it now; his feet were set on the path.

They drank tea out of blue-and-white Japanese cups, with sight-seers all round them. Esmé would have shuddered at the place, absolutely refused to take tea with milk in it, and with such impossible people about her.

Estelle enjoyed it; the day was still theirs as they dined at the same little restaurant with the same waiter, his memory sharpened by Bertie's surreptitiously large tip, rushing to find a table for them.

Weariness made economy less rigid; the little dinner they picked out was simple, but not for poor people. Since men in morning coats may not appear in respectably expensive seats, they climbed high at a theatre, looking down at the stage far below them; the brilliant mass of colour in the stalls; the rows of perfectly-dressed women's heads; of men's—sleek and generally thin of hair. Parties strolled into boxes, late for half an act, carelessly looking at the play on the stage.

"There's Esmé! See!"

Esmé came into one of the larger boxes with Dollie Gresham, Jimmie Gore Helmsley; a couple of soldiers; and then at the last, pretty Sybil Chauntsey, gesticulating as she ran in, everyone laughing at something she said.

"I wish"—Bertie looked gravely at the group—"that Sybil Chauntsey would keep away from that Helmsley man. He's no child's guide."

It was Jimmie's party. He had telephoned to Esmé to chaperone it. They were supping at the Ritz afterwards. Little Sybil had been engaged; she had run in telling them of her many difficulties before she could get away. At a small dance to-night one man would look for a partner who would never come.

Estelle was tired when the theatre was over; it was hot up there above the dress circle. She pointed to her morning dress and refused supper.

"We'll have some at home then. Esmé may be back. The economy must end at twelve. I'll drive you home in a taxi."

They came to the flat to find it silent, shut up. Esmé was not coming home until three or four. A few sandwiches stood ready for her, but Bertie would have none of them. He could cook; there were chafing dishes downstairs. Together they raided the trim larder, to find nothing but cold beef and eggs and butter. But how they laughed as Bertie scrambled the eggs, and did it skilfully, if he had not put in pepper twice, and Estelle grilled slices of beef in boiling butter, and dusted them with curry powder; then they heated cold potatoes and carried up their hot dishes, with bread and butter and plates.

Estelle said she adored pepper, as she burnt her throat with scrambled eggs. Bertie concealed the fact that the beef was corned; the potatoes, hot by the time the eggs and beef were finished, were excellent. Estelle made coffee.

They cleared up at last, washing dishes, putting things away, going home together on a cool summer's night in a crawling growler.

Esmé's new maid, looking in once, had slipped away unseen.

A foolish, childish day; a glimpse of how two people may enjoy themselves in the vast mother city of the world, away from where the golden shower of wealth rains so heedlessly, where cost is the hallmark of excellence, and a restaurant which is not the fashion of the moment is impossible.

As they said good-bye on the doorstep—Estelle had her key—Bertie held her cool, slender hands in his; asked her if she would spend a day out of London with him. "Down in Devonshire," he said, "at Cliff End. I have to go there soon. We can go early. Your aunt will not mind."

"Oh, not with you," said Estelle, simply. "She knows it is all right."

He felt a little pang at the words—a pang he could not understand. It was right that she should trust herself with him; he was married and a mere friend; yet the little vexed feeling in his heart was the warning held up by the gods.

Bertie walked back—a long walk along quiet streets with great London brooding in her silent might. Sometimes he passed a house lighted up, red carpeting on its steps, rows of carriages and motors waiting; women in rich cloaks coming out, their faces weary behind their smiles. Sometimes strange birds of the night flitted past. Other women, painted, weary as their rich sisters behind their set smile of invitation, going home alone, abandoning search for foolish prey. Men, evil-faced, furtive, glanced at him, standing to watch if the "toff" would turn into some unfrequented narrow street. Gleams of white shirt front as men of his class strolled to their rooms or lodging, their black cloaks flapping back to show the evening dress underneath. A few tipsy, foolish boys, lurching along looking for trouble. The big clubs were still lighted, their warm wealth behind their great windows. On to "down at Kensington," to the great pile of the flats towering to the soft blue sky.

A little electric carriage rolled noiselessly past him. Esmé got out. A man's voice said "Good-bye." It was one of the soldiers whom he had seen in the box. He heard some words of parting, then Esmé's careless, heart-whole laugh. They were on the second floor; he heard her exclaim as she saw the lights all up:

"How careless of someone."

She was brilliantly dressed; something of black and silver, clinging, graceful, billowing out round her feet; there were diamonds in her fair hair, a new necklace on her soft white throat. She shivered a little, turning on the fire, filling herself a glass of brandy from the decanter, pouring in a little Perrier.

"I was the careless one, Esmé. I forgot them."

"But you have only just come in," she said.

"I was in and went out again. You look tired, Esmé."

The morning light, stealing in through the drawn curtains, was blue and searching. It showed the powder on her cheeks, the line of the deftly-applied carnation bloom; it made her a little haggard, older than her twenty-five years.

"Yes, I'm tired," she yawned. "I thought you would be asleep." She lighted a strong cigarette. "I'm tired. We had supper at the Ritz and went on to Sue's ball. She had a new necklace, a beauty! She's just got an electric landaulette. Heigho! I'm tired of being poor—of pinching."

"You came home in an electric landaulette, Butterfly," Bertie smiled at her, but it was a mirthless smile.

"Oh! I'll pay for them myself," she flashed out ill-humouredly. "I can't hunt for taxis. I—" she stopped. Bertie allowed her a hundred a year for small things, pocket-money; she must make him think she saved out of that.

"And new diamonds." He touched the necklace glittering on the soft white flesh.

"Paste," she said, "paste. The thing only cost ten pounds. I had nothing decent to wear."

Until one took up the necklace one could not guess—see the solid backing. It was a brilliant thing; the workmanship perfect; but it had cost five times ten pounds.

Bertie bent to kiss the soft, warm flesh; slipped his arm round the supple shoulders.

"Come! I'll put you to bed," he whispered; "be your obedient maid, Butterfly."

"Susan will come, I told her to. Go to the little room, Bertie. I sleep so badly and anything disturbs me. I've heaps to do to-morrow."

He took his arm away, his ardour chilling, and went out without a word. Susan, sleepy but attentive, came in; put Madame to bed; washed the soft skin free of powder and paint; brought a little glass to the bedside.

"Madame's drops. Madame might not sleep."

Crystal clear, tasteless, soothing, bringing dreamless, heavy sleep; a slide of treachery down which women slip to ill-health and worse. Already, at five-and-twenty, Esmé was taking chloral.

The Society Bazaar began to take shape, to approach the days of its holding. Gorgeous gowns of satin and gauze and lace were fashioned for fair débutantes and pretty matrons.

Sweets, china, baskets; the hundred and one things which no one wants and which they must buy at three times the value when ordered.

The Duchess of Boredom would sell baskets. Dollie suggested an idea of diamond-like brilliancy: "Tie a card to every one:

'The Duchess of Boredom,
Boredom Court,'

with just a letter 's' and 'stall' in the corner. Everyone suburban in the room will rush for those baskets, and shop with them for months to come, forgetting, of course, to take off the card. It's perfect," said Dollie, "if she'll do it."

"Or you might have some made in the shape of strawberry leaves," said Bertie, gravely.

The Duchess did not object to her card being used. She was willing to order some hundreds of cards for the sake of charity.

"The Bazaar, of course, paying my stationers," said the Duchess, severely.

There were sweet stalls, where pretty notabilities, for five shillings extra, would sign their names on the boxes.

There was a stall kept by great actresses, who sold their autographs and their photographs, and buttonholes of rosebuds and carnations.

There were side shows, café chantants, everything to take money from the public.

"For the tiny crippled children. Help them." Children selling flowers and sweets, dressed all in pale pink, crowned with rosebuds, carried little cards on their heads, with these words printed.

"Let us be nothing if not sentimental," said Dollie, looking round the hall. Dull green gave background to the flower dresses; dull green on stalls and against the walls. Royalty had promised to be present. It was a great affair.

"It will buy tweeds," said Dollie. "It always does. And baskets, and sweets for the hospitals. And it—the male part of it—won't be allowed any of the photographs it wants from the stage stall."

A great bazaar, which a minor Royalty graciously declared open, and then remembered an engagement; its royal purse was sparsely supplied.

All Society seemed to be assisting, but Suburbia flocked to it, and in the evening Shopland would render gallant support.

"For the tiny crippled children; see the lovely dears," said Mrs Harris to Mrs Smith of Clapham. "What's your name, little love, now?"

"Pollie Laverdean," a small mite of eight raised dark liquid eyes. "Buy somefin', p'ease."

"Lady Marrianne," whispered a better-informed friend. "The Countess of Gardenia's eldest—ain't she sweet?"

"An' to call her plain Pollie. My! my!" murmured the friend.

Mrs Smith and Mrs Harris bought two small china dogs at five shillings each, and a box of shilling chocolates at the same price.

The Duchess's baskets went as snow before the sun.

Lady Lila Blyth and her lovely daughters sold flowers freely. The names of the assistants were written plainly over each stall—another idea of Dollie's.

Lady Lila Blyth, Miss Eva Blyth, Miss Lulu Blyth; Lady Eliza O'Neill; Mrs Holmes; the Marquess of Tweesdale; Lord Rupert Scot; the Earl of Domomere.

Brilliantly handsome in her blue gown, Esmé sold chocolate and dragées and crystallized fruits.

Canon Bright had worked hard to help; got flowers and fruit sent in great quantities. He and the little secretary came now through the stalls.

"It's splendid," he said to Dollie; "the stores near us sent a box of stuff to your stall."

"Oh, yes, thanks awfully! Is it there, Esmé? We haven't opened it yet. When these shop things are sold we will."

"But," the Canon picked up a huge guinea box of fruits, stickily alluring, "you've had to buy all these, haven't you?"

"Yes, and you see it wouldn't be fair if we didn't sell quite a lot of these things as we get them at a reduction. But we'll open the box; the children can sell the things."

Going on to Lady Lila's stall, a mass of carnations and roses and sweet peas, the secretary asked for the gifts of flowers. The Canon had begged from half his county.

The same vague look. "Oh, all these hampers and boxes. You see, these were in and the florist's people arrange and settle them for us. We'd have to bunch all these others, wouldn't we? Oh, of course, they'd be clear profit, but one cannot wait for chance gifts, can one? One must be ready."

Baskets of dewy rosebuds, of white pinks, sweet peas, of carnations lay withering behind the stalls. The florists had decked the tables, would do the same to-morrow. One could not bother with piles of things loose in baskets.

Canon Bright, used to humble county bazaars, where every gift was welcomed, could not understand it.

He bought lavishly. He looked with a smile which was almost wistful at the mites who fluttered about the thronged hall, their notices held up by wires above the crowns of roses.

"For the tiny crippled children." They rattled their little bags of money as they sold their goods.

"Fink there are any crippled children?" said Lady Pollie to her friend the Honourable Anne Buller.

"No fear! They's all kept in big places in beds. It's just fun for us an' Mumsie. She loves her yellow dress; she's a rose too, Mumsie is. Who gave you the gold piece, Pollie?"

"The fat man there; he said I was a sufferin' angel, or perhaps it was 'nother long word. Let's go an' eat ices or strawberries."

Money pouring into cash boxes; sovereigns for buttonholes; notes for foolish trumpery.

Royalty, gracious, really charitable, came in the afternoon, made its way through the crush which thronged to watch it, bought lavishly but sensibly, spoke kindly to stall-holders, honoured Dollie and Esmé with special notice.

"I hear you got it all up. So good of you. It is one of the hospitals most needed. We went there last week."

Small Royalty carries off a box of sweets with the glee of extremely natural childhood; a merry mite; far more simply brought up than shrewd little Lady Pollie. She knew that there were real crippled children, wan, stunted products of the slums, tended and made happy, perhaps cured, in that struggling hospital. She had seen them in their little blue jackets, looking eagerly at her kindly mother and at her as they went from bed to bed. They passed through a curtseying crowd, bought, went on to tea, gracious, kindly people.

"They've simply made it," Esmé said. "What a crowd we have. A charming box of sweets. Yes. Souvenir of the Bazaar—boxes specially made—one guinea. Too much? There's a small one for ten shillings; but the Princess took one of the others. Thank you! The big one? Oh, Captain Gore Helmsley—buy sweets?"

Jimmie, darkly handsome, his years disguised by careful grooming, strolled by. He stopped to say, laughing, that his digestion could not assimilate chocolates and dragées. Sybil Chauntsey, a glowing little nasturtium, her brown beauty set off by brilliant yellow, came hurrying up, young Knox with her; he had come up to try again. She was selling buttonholes, helping at one of the flower stalls.

"I'll buy a flower though," Jimmie turned quickly.

"I've only one left," Sybil said, "this yellow carnation. Captain Knox wants it. I was just coming for a pin. Mine have all dropped. It's five shillings."

"I'll give you ten," Helmsley said. "Touch it with your lips it shall be a pound."

"Two," said Knox, sharply.

"An auctioneer!" Esmé clapped her hands. "Well done, Sybil. Come, Captain Helmsley."

"Four!" said Helmsley, carelessly.

"Five!"

A little crowd gathered. Sybil, glowing, laughing, her childish vanity touched by this piece of vulgar advertisement. In her gay yellow and red-striped gown she stood holding up the flower; the nasturtium's head-dress was a hood of vivid green, opening over mock flower petals.

"Six!"

"Seven!"

"Ten!" said Jimmie, carelessly. "Come, that's a fair price for a flower—but I'll go on."

Young Knox stopped bidding suddenly, his face growing white. He watched Sybil, laughing brightly, kiss the flower, saw Jimmie Helmsley touch it covertly with his lips where her soft red ones had lain, and hold out the yellow bud to be fastened on.

"I win the flower," he said mockingly.

"One moment." Young Knox bent close to Sybil. "I'll say good-bye. It's not quite my game—this. But if you ever want me, remember I'm there, as I told you before. Good-bye."

The glow died out of Sybil Chauntsey's face; her fingers trembled as she fastened in the flower and took her five pound notes.

Helmsley walked on with her. Would she come to tea? He had a big box of sweets for her. Wouldn't she have them?

Sybil woke up after a minute or two, grew feverishly gay with the gaiety which cloaks sorrow; was almost noisy, her cheeks glowing, her eyes glittering; took a dozen presents from Gore Helmsley: Venetian beads, sweets, charms, bought at fabulous prices.

"Poor chap, not to think your flower worth more than a tenner," Helmsley had said in his mocking voice.

The Great Charity Bazaar ran on wheels oiled by golden oil; the cash-boxes filled. Kindly Canon Bright walked round it dreaming of the debt which would be paid off his beloved hospital. Of instruments, of comforts for the tiny sufferers, of the increased room which they could make.

Lord Boredom, very immaculately dressed, was helping his mother, but he preferred taking a basket at a time round the hall than attending the stall. Once he came back with a demure-looking young lady whom the Duchess welcomed cordially as "My dear Miss Moover," making Sukey Ploddy sniff loudly.

But the sensation of the evening was when the Duchess was taken to the Café Chantant to see on the white curtain the words: "Miss Moover, by kind permission of the Magnificent Theatre."

The Duchess went in. Miss Moover's dance was audacious, her draperies shadow-like; she squirmed and twisted and bounded across the stage, displaying the exquisitely-formed limbs which made London flock to see her. She was agile, graceful, never exaggerated, full of the joy of youth.

From the Magnificent Theatre! The Duchess, breathing heavily, staggered out, her black dress rustling. "A dancer! A creature!"

"I shall never," she said, "countenance those Holbrooks again," and with stony eyes she cut Luke deliberately and sent for her son.

"It was unfortunate, my love," said Mr Holbrook, mildly, "the whole idea."

The big bazaar day died to change to a blaze of electric lights, to a kaleidoscope of colour, of flower dresses, blue and yellow and pink and white, blending and moving; of diners in the miniature Ritz Hotel and other restaurants, eating luxurious meals.

It began again next day, a cheaper, less select affair, with half the assistants far too tired to come, and it ran through another day; a huge spider sucking golden blood from innumerable flies.

It was over at last; the stall-holders ate a merry supper; assistants from the shops cleared away their goods; no one bothered much about it all now.

The Society papers would publish accounts and photographs, with Dollie and Esmé, charitable ladies, always in the most prominent place.

Canon Bright and the secretary were jubilant at supper, thanking everyone; they would call in a day or two. If Mrs Gresham would let them, they would help her with the accounts.

But Dollie told them pleasantly that she wanted no help as yet.

A few days later she sat with Esmé over piles of papers, totting carelessly.

"They've charged horribly for those sweets. Oh! and Claire's bill is exorbitant!" She held it up.

"It's double what it ought to be," said Esmé.

"H'm!" Dollie totted. "I want to pay her off. Just a little on to the hall account, and to odd nothings, and there are a few extra gowns in the price of the blue; that will make it right. One can't slave for nothing," said Dollie. "You can get a couple of gowns, too. I arranged that with her. It was worth it," said Dollie, "to stop the woman's mouth."

When cheques came in other people seemed to have found their expenses equally high. London tradesmen charge highly for decorating, for assistance. The golden coins paid out for charity went for glitter and show, for gowns and waste. The Ritz had not paid its way. All stall-holders lunched and dined free there. Hunt & Mason sent in a bill of some size.

In a month's time Dollie wanted it all to be forgotten; she sent a cheque to the hospital with all her accounts carefully copied out.

The secretary turned pale as he read the amount. "That!" he said, "that—after it all! And now, for a year's time, if we appeal for funds, people will say, 'But you've just had that bazaar; we went there, bought lavishly, we cannot help again so soon.'

"Miss Harnett," he said heavily to the matron, "we must give up all idea of that west ward; we cannot afford it; or those new reclining chairs and instruments."

He wrote drearily, for his heart was in his work, to Canon Bright.

"All such a splendid success," Dollie's friends had said to her, and kindly Royalty, with its love of true charity, asked her to a select garden-party.

CHAPTER IX

"I am going to Cliff End on Friday, Estelle. Will you come? We'll start at eight, and get back about ten."

"I'd love to. London is baking me."

June heat glowed through the huge city; the pavements were hot under the fierce sun; the air felt used up, heavy; the packed streets vibrated under their load of wheeled monsters, of swooping, gliding taxis. Everyone was going somewhere; busy, smiling, full of the business of pleasure. Old faces were lined under powder and face cream; young ones had lost their colour a little.

Perfectly gowned, with hair in the order of the moment, faintly scented, smiling, woman, hawk-like, swooped on her natural prey, man. Soft debutantes, white-robed, hopeful, fluttered as they dreamt of the matches which they might make. Anxious, youthful mothers spent their all, and more, to give their girls a chance. Older girls smiled more confidently, yet were less hopeful of drawing some great prize.

There, walking along quietly in morning coat, a slouching, keen-eyed young fellow; a flutter as he passes.

"See, Audrey! Lord Golderly. Evie, bow; did you not see Lord Golderly?"

Or from more intimate friends: "Sukey! There's Joss. Call him over! He's thinner than ever! Mum! there's Jossy! Ask him to our little dinner—he might come."

The Marquis of Golderly, with eighty thousand a year, with a panelled house in Yorkshire, a castle in Scotland, with Golderly House in Piccadilly—let now to rich Americans—had strolled by. A pleasant-looking, well-made boy, with his mind full of his new polo pony, and not in the least interested in the Ladies Evie and Audrey, or in his cousin Sukey. Some day he must marry, but not yet.

Another flutter: a girl runs laughing to catch her toy pom, showing her lithe, active limbs as she slips along.

"There comes Sir Edward Castleknock," a little elderly man, his income lately depleted by a white marble tombstone to his second wife, but he has no heir; he must marry again, and he is a rich man. The youthful mothers signal to him, stopping him carelessly, calling to their girls as he stops.

"Here's my little Evie, grown up, Sir Edward; you used to give her sugared almonds. Makes one so ancient, doesn't it?"

Evie musters a smile for the memory of sugared almonds. She says something conventional with a show of excellent teeth. Sir Edward is musical. Milady invites him to hear the dear child sing; to lunch on Sunday—one-thirty—the old address.

One mamma has got a start of her competitors; captured the widower as he emerges from the sombre draped doors of his mourning.

"To sing?" Lady Evie wrinkles a pretty nose. "Well, Mumsie, don't let it get past 'Violets' and that French song; they are the only two dear old Monsieur could ever get me to sing in tune."

They work hard, these mothers, for their daughters, for what is life without riches and places, and a niche in Society's walls? What waste of bringing up, of French and German governesses, of dancing lessons and swimming lessons, and dull classes, if Evie or Audrey merely married some ordinary youngster, to disappear with him upon a couple of thousand a year!

So many competitors, so few prizes. The race is to the swift, and the strong, and the astute; to the matron who knows not only how to seize opportunity, but not to release it again until it puts a ring upon her daughter's massaged hand.

So Evie and Sue and Audrey must stifle the natural folly which nature has placed in their fresh young hearts, and help "Mum" to the proud hour when her daughter will count her wedding presents by the hundred, and smile sweetly on the bevy of maidens who are still running in the race.

Some, without kindly, clever mothers, must fight for themselves, and in the fight use strange methods to attain their prize. Crooked ways, cut-off corners, wrong side of posts; yet they too smile quite as contentedly if they win at the last.

Young Golderly has been stopped a dozen times; he has seen sweet smiles, caught flashing glances. Evie has called attention to her lovely feet by knocking one against a chair. Audrey has whispered to him that she adores polo; will be at Hurlingham to-day.

"To see you hit a goal," she coos; "oh! how I shall clap!"

"She may be a little wild—my new pony," he says, his mind still full of that piece of bay symmetry, a race-horse in miniature, and slips away. Golderly had come to meet a friend who would have talked of nothing but polo ponies; he has missed him, and the pretty runners of the race strive and jostle until they bore him sadly.

He turns to slip away, to get back to his club by a round across the Park, and then gasps, smitten roughly, his hat bumping on to the path.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Blow these hobble skirts. Blow the things!" says a girl's voice.

Kitty Harrington, a big, clumsy maiden, freckles powdering her clear skin. "A badly-dressed touzled young woman," is the verdict passed on her.

Kitty is having her season without any clever, youthful mother; she is under the charge of her aunt, Lady Harrington, who does not take much notice of her, and thinks the girl a foolish tomboy.

"Snap was running out to where the motors are," says Kitty, guilelessly, "and he might get hurt. We were doing a scamper on the grass."

Snap is a rough terrier of uncertain pedigree, unwillingly confined in London.

"He ties his lead round people's legs if I drag him through the crowd," Kitty goes on. "So we keep away and make believe it's country. Oh! if it was! And then this skirt tripped me."

Young Golderly looks at her. A big, rather clumsy girl, but open-eyed, fresh from eighteen years of country life; a girl who has learnt to swim in the open sea; whose gymnastics have been practised up trees.

"They are rotten things to try to run in," he says, smiling boyishly, "those skirts. Haven't I met you somewhere? I'm Lord Golderly." Here he pursues his hat, which Snap is treating as if it were a rat.

"Oh! goodness! Oh! I have been clumsy." Kitty is all pink cheeks and tearful eyes; she dabs them surreptitiously. "Oh! your poor best hat—all torn! Oh! I am a clumsy girl—never meant for London. No, I haven't met you. I'm Miss Harrington—Lady Harrington's niece."

"I know her!" Jossy, master of eighty thousand a year, grins as he examines his hat brim. "Are you going to the match to-day—to Hurlingham?"

"N—no," Kitty's lips droop. "Auntie's made up her party! And oh! I do love polo. We play at home, the boys and I. I've such a pony! Have you got a nice one?"

"A nice one!" Young Golderly grins again; this girl is like a breath of fresh country air blowing across the moorlands. Evidently his name conveys nothing to her.

"I've twenty," he says, laughing.

"Oh, then you're rich! How jolly! If I were rich—"

"Well?" he asks.

Kitty puts her head on one side.

"I'd have hunters; three of them, all my own. Not the boys', which I borrow. And I'd have a motor and drive it; and give Mumsie a new fur coat—hers is old. And I'd have otter hounds."

"Oh, you like that too? Otter hunting," he says eagerly.

"Oh, yes!" Kitty shows a set of strong even teeth. "It's so jolly up in the early mornings when all the grass is washing in dew; and hunting up the rivers; and the dogs working. And then isn't breakfast good?" says Kitty, prosaically. "I'd cook mine on the river bank. I make fine scrambled eggs, and I can toast bacon till it's just sumptuous."

Of course Kitty can have no idea that Golderly has hunted a pack of otter hounds for some years.

The boy looks at her again. She is so fresh and natural and friendly. The skin under her freckles is singularly fine; her eyes are bright, her active figure at its worst in a ridiculous hobble skirt.

"Say! I can't go back there," he nods towards the strolling crowd, "in Snap's handiwork. Let's walk across the grass."

"I want to get to Lancaster Gate. Right!" says Kitty, "we live there, you know."

As they go they talk of ponies and horses and terriers and otters and tennis, and when they part young Golderly takes a brown, shapely, gloveless hand in his and shakes it warmly.

"Come to the match; come to see me play," he says. "I'll take you over to the ponies and show you my beauties. You ought to come."

Kitty rushes in to her aunt. "Auntie! get Hurlingham tickets somewhere. You must!" And Kitty tells of her adventure.

When a year later big Kitty marches sedately down the aisle of a country church on the arm of her husband, a Marquis, she manages her trailing skirts cleverly enough.

A rank outsider, a creature not even mentioned in the betting; but a letter from Kitty's dearest friend might prove that she need not have tripped so grievously over her hobble skirt; while further experience proved that she was lazy about otter hunting, and that behind the ingenuous face lay a shrewd and far-seeing brain. The letter was to "Dearest Kit."

"Shame of Auntie May not to bother about you," it ran. "I met young Lord Golderly at Marches Hall last week-end. He's just your sort—all sport. Get to meet him somehow and talk horses—polo ponies and otter hunting; he's sick of Society."

The future Lady Golderly carefully tore up that letter.

Estelle Reynolds turned from watching the flow of life stream past her to speak to Bertie Carteret.

Estelle was a mere outsider there, knowing very few people—just a few of Esmé's friends. She liked to see them flutter up and down, meeting, parting, always going on somewhere, always chattering of the hundred things which they had got to do.

"I should like to go to Cliff End," repeated Estelle. "The love of London is not with me, though for two years, perhaps three, I must stay here, until my mother comes from her travels, in fact."

"Unless—you marry," Bertie said slowly.

In some vague way the thought vexed him.

Estelle laughed. "There is the curate," she said, "but I am not High Church enough to please him. Yes, there is the curate. I am far too ordinary and stupid for Esmé's friends to look at me, and I meet no others. My marriage must be deferred until we take up the house in Northamptonshire, and then some country squire will suit me and not notice my last year's frocks."

"Not notice you," Bertie snorted. "Stupid young tailor's blocks, always going on. You don't notice them."

"Oh, they're not all stupid," Estelle said. "Mr Turner told me three hands which he had played at bridge the night before, and had crushin' luck in them all. He couldn't be stupid with that memory. How is Esmé?"

"Frightfully busy," Bertie laughed. "Her latest evening gown was not a success. She is weighed down between the choice of pure white or pure black for a new opera cloak. Someone is coming to lunch, and the new cook's soufflets are weary things, given to sitting down. Also her ices melt; and she cannot sauté potatoes; it is French for frying, isn't it? Look here! come in old clothes, and we'll be babies and help to make hay. This day is taken up by a luncheon, by tea at the Carlton, dinner at the Holbrooks', an evening party. I have struck at two dances, as I have to get up early."

Esmé had gone to Madame Claire's to storm over this new gown of golden soft chiffon and silk. It dragged; it did not fit. She found Madame Claire inaccessible. Mrs Carteret bought a few gowns, but my Lady Blakeney was choosing six—two models, two copies, two emanating from Madame Jane Claire's slightly torpid English brains. She had her country's desire for buttons and for trimmings.

But Denise's order was lavish; it meant petticoats, wraps to match; it meant items of real lace. How then to spare sorrow because one golden yellow evening gown ordered by a Mrs Carteret had been too hurriedly finished.

"Tell Madame that I am really pressed for time. Can she not spare me five minutes?"

Madame was with Lady Blakeney, very busy with an order, the forewoman was also engaged. A slender young woman in black satin glided back with the message. Would Madame call again later, make an appointment? Had Madame seen one of the latest scarves? Quite charming, only five guineas. Black satin dexterously whisked out a wisp of chiffon. "No! Madame did not want a scarf."

Denise was behind the strawberry silk curtains hiding in Madame's sanctum. Esmé felt hurt, sore. It was always Denise—always Denise. She, Esmé, was no one.

She got up, looking at her tall, slight figure in one of the long glasses; she grew flushed, angry.

"I have not time to call again. Please tell Madame that the evening gown is impossible, a strait-waistcoat. I was to have worn it to-night at a dance. Now I must wear an old gown of Lucille's—which at least fits." Esmé flounced out, wiping the dust of the strawberry-hued salon from her tightly-shod feet.

Half an hour later Madame Claire heard the message.

"Alter it," she said carelessly. "Let it out. I expect she'll give me up now. Send her her bill at once."

The heat beat down in quivering waves. All London shopped, buying, buying, since freshness lasted but for a few days, and one must not be seen in a gown more than three or four times.

Tinsels and chiffons and laces; feather ruffles; silks and crepes and muslins; gloves and silken stockings piled up on the mahogany counters for Society to buy. Subtle-tongued assistants lauded their wares; there was always something which Madame had not dreamt of buying, but which she suddenly discovered to be an absolute necessity.

The flower-shops showed their sheaves of cut blossoms, long-stemmed roses, carnations, lilies, pinks, monster sweet peas. Things out of season nestled in baskets in the fruiterers. Wealth everywhere, gold or promise of gold; electric motors gliding noiselessly. Slim youngsters taking their morning stroll; brown-skinned soldiers up for a few days, spending in shops behind windows which Madame and Mademoiselle passed without a glance. The richest city in the world gathered its summer harvest; and white-faced poverty, sometimes straying from their poor country, looking on, dully, resentfully envious. Sewing-machines flew in the sweltering heat, needles darted, rows of girls sat working breathlessly, that great ladies might not be disappointed.

"I must have that embroidered gown for the Duchess's party, Madame."

"Certainly, milady, without fail."

Then a visit to the workroom—a whisper to two pale girls.

"You two must stay overtime to-night, get that dress finished. It mustn't get out, either—be careful!"

So, when their breath of air might be snatched, the two would stitch on under the dazzle of electric light, drink strong tea and eat bread and butter, and never dare to grumble, for there were fifty other girls who could be taken instead of them.

Esmé strolled up Bond Street. She bought a ruffle which caught her fancy; she stopped to talk to half a dozen people; but she strolled on, her goal a soot-smirched square where a baby would be taking its airing.

He was there, under his white awning, looking a little pale, a little peaked, wilting in the heat.

Mrs Stanson knew her visitor, smiled at her, never quite understood why Esmé came to the square so often. Esmé asked for Denise first; she was always careful to know that she was out before she came, then went into the gardens.

There was no air in it; the trees had no freshness; the grass looked dull and unwholesome.

"Isn't he very white, Mrs Stanson—peaky?"

"He should be in the country," Mrs Stanson said. "Down where his windows'd let in air at night and not the smuts from the chimneys. But her ladyship—she thinks different; she hates the country. I saw little Lord Helmington go in a hot summer because they wouldn't open Helmington Hall to send him down there with me."

"But he—Cyrrie—he won't go?" Esmé caught at the small soft fingers, moist with heat. A sudden fear gripped her heart.

"Was Denise going to kill the boy? Of course she did not care."

"Take care of him, Mrs Stanson. Oh! take care of him. I was there when he was born, you know. I used to act nurse for him. Aren't there those ozone things you hang up in bedrooms? Or, can't you get him away?"

Esmé hung over the baby, jealous of his little life, panting, afraid.

Mrs Stanson had taken several gold pieces from the child's visitor. She shrugged her plump shoulders.

"Her ladyship doesn't care for children, Mrs Carteret, and that's the truth. She says I fuss, talk nonsense. He don't even get a drive every day, and Sir Cyril, he comes in, but he's her ladyship's husband. Hssh! baby, hssh!"

For little Cyril began to cry querulously, wrinkling his peaky face.

Esmé bent over him, crooning to him, her motherhood awake. Now she knew her madness. For this was hers, and she would have sent him away to breathe fresh air and grow into a big, strong man like Bertie.

"It's a pity, mem, you haven't got one." The nurse lifted up the fretful child.

"It is—a pity." Esmé's face was white and strained, the two patches of rouge standing out; she looked grey, old. "Oh, it is a pity, nurse," she swayed.

"Laws! Mrs Carteret, you're ill. It's this cruel heat. Sit you there, and I'll run in for salts or a little sal volatile."

"No." Esmé recovered herself. "No, nurse, thank you. It's only the heat. Well, take care of him; and better not tell her ladyship that I came over. She never likes my looking at the boy."

Esmé knew now—she knew what a fool she had been. How, snatching at her ease, her comfort, her enjoyment, she had lost the boy who brought love with him. There was nothing to be done, nothing to be said; she dared not tell at this stage. Bertie would never forgive her. She might even be denied, disproved, by some jugglery.

She went heavily homewards, walking on the hot pavement.

An electric limousine flashed by her; a smiling face bowed, a white-gloved hand was waved. Denise was going home to luncheon. Bond Street again, less crowded now. Esmé saw a girl jump lightly from a taxi, turn to smile at someone inside. It was Sybil Chauntsey; the taxi passed Esmé and pulled up; she saw Jimmie Gore Helmsley get out.

Where had these two been so early? They had got out separately, as if concealment were necessary. What a fool the girl was! What a fool!

Esmé hailed a taxi; she was lunching at the Ritz, had asked three friends there. Bah! it would cost so much, and be over and forgotten in an hour.

With a smile set on a weary face, Esmé drove on. She would snatch at amusement more greedily than ever!

At eight in the morning a great London station is fully awake, but not yet stifling and noisy; the cool air of the night still lurks about the platforms; the glass has not got hot; the early people are cool themselves.

Bertie was up early so as to call for Estelle; his taxi sped to the quiet square where her aunt lived. A gloomy place, with tall houses standing in formidable respectability, where grave old butlers opened doors, and broughams and victorias still came round to take their owners for an airing.

Estelle was on the doorstep, cool and fresh, one of the few people who can get up early without looking sleepy.

They flew to Devonshire.

"First class!" Estelle frowned as she saw her ticket. "Oh, Captain Carteret!"

"This is my day," he pleaded. "To be economical travelling one must be economical in company. Come along."

They had an empty carriage; going down to the restaurant for breakfast—a little gritty as train breakfasts are, but excellent.

London slipped away; they ran past lush meadows, past placid streams, old farmhouses sheltered by trees. The countryside was alive with busy workers. Steel knives cut the grass and laid it in fragrant swathes. Steel teeth tossed it up through the hot, dry air. It was perfect weather for saving hay, for gathering the early harvest. The earth gives to us living, takes our clay to its heart when our spirits have left it.

The heat mists swept up slowly from the world; fairy vapours floating heavenwards until the summer's day was clear in its sunlit beauty; and they tore into far Devon with the salt breath of the sea in the faint wind.

A dogcart met them at the station; a short drive, with the sea pulsing far below them, brought them to Cliff End. An old house standing amid a blaze of flowers, it was its owner's whim to have it kept up as if he were living there. There were quaintly-shaped rooms, with windows flung wide. Estelle ran through them, getting her first glimpse of a true English home, while Bertie went over accounts and did his business.

The housekeeper, a smiling dame, appeared breathlessly just as he came in.

She was ashamed not to be there to meet them, but old bones moved slowly; she had been down to the Home Farm to see a sick child there.

"We'm right glad to see your good lady at last," she smiled at Estelle, holding out a wrinkled hand. Mrs Corydon was a privileged friend of the family.

"Not my good lady," Bertie said hurriedly, "a friend, Mrs Corydon." But his face changed suddenly; he grew red.

Man is a being dependent on his dinner; their late luncheon was perfect of its kind. Grilled trout, chicken, Devonshire cream, and strawberries.

"It's such a glorious old place." Estelle looked round the panelled room. "If one could live here one could be happy simply being alive."

"Some people could," he said quietly. "Esmé would die of boredom in a week."

"Of boredom, with those flowers outside, with the sea crooning so close," she said.

"But in winter," he answered, "there are no flowers, and the sea would roar."

"Then there would be fires," said Estelle, "and hunting, and books; and always fresh air. I stifle in London."

The day was a long joy to her, so deep it might have made her pause to think.

They went to the hayfields, breathing in the scent of the fragrant grass; tossing it themselves, foolish, as children might have done; wandering off to the river where it whispered between rocky banks. A stretch of golden brown and silver clear, of dark shadow and plashing ripple, green-hued where the long weeds stretched their plumes beneath the water, eddying, swirling, gliding, until it spread out upon Trelawney Bay, and wandered lost amongst the sands, looking for the sea. Great ferns grew among the rocks; dog roses tangled in the hedges; sometimes a feeding trout would break a flat with his soft ploop-ploop as he sucked down the fly; or smaller fish would fling and plash in shallow places, making believe that they were great creatures as they fed.

Bertie had asked for the tea to be sent out to them. It came in a basket, and they lighted a spirit lamp, laying it out close to the shimmering sea.

Mrs Corydon had sent down wonderful cakes, splits and nun's puffs, and a jar of the inevitable cream. It was a feast eaten by two fools who forgot human nature.

They gave the basket to the boy, wandered on to the cliffs. Here, with a meadow rippling in waves of green behind them, they sat down. It was cooler now. They sat in the shade of a high bank with the blue, diamond-spangled water far below, emerald-hued and indigo, where it lapped in shadow by the cliff. With the salt scent of it mingling with the scent of grass and flowers and hot sun-baked turf. Gulls wheeled screaming softly. They were quite alone in the glory of the country.

Estelle, a little tired, lay back against the bank, dropped suddenly asleep; her slender browned hands lay close to Bertie; as she moved her head came almost against his shoulder, so that to make her more comfortable he moved a little to support it.

A sudden thrill ran through him; her nearness, the touch of her cheek against his arm; her childish trust and abandon. The thrill was one of content followed by fear. What was he learning to feel for this girl from South Africa, this mere friend and companion?

"Companion? Had Esmé ever been one?" Looking back he realized that there are two sorts of love; one when man is ruled by man alone, and one when passion and friendship can walk hand in hand; a pair, once mated, whom death alone can part.

He recalled his first meeting with his wife, and how her brilliant beauty had allured him.

How she had taken his worship carelessly, as a thing of every day; and how always she had relied on her beauty as the natural power of woman without dreaming of any other. A touch of her round arms about his neck, a hot kiss—these were her arguments—arguments which, until lately, had never failed. If he talked of outside things she would pout and yawn, and bring him back to the centre of the world—her beauty.

"There were other girls; tell me about them; were they as pretty as I am, Bert?"

"Never—never!" he had to assure her. If he talked of the sunshine she would laugh and ask if it did not make her hair look red. Her hands, her feet, her fingers—she was never weary of having them praised. And yet she lacked the joy of losing herself in love; she had a merciless power of analysing emotion, because she did not feel it deeply herself. In all his transports, Bertie knew there had been something missing; he had been the lover, she content to be loved.

The true companionship which can keep silence was never theirs.

Now, with the sea of grass waving behind them, and the sea crooning, crooning, so far below, the man was afraid. Was there a second sort of love, and had he missed the best thing in life?

He loved the clean airs of the country, sport of all kinds, a home to go to. Yet he must spend his days in close streets, in an eternal rush of entertainment and entertaining; to go home to a little portion of a great building, where he was merely one of the tenants of a flat.

If no one was coming, the little drawing-room was left bare of flowers, neglected. Esmé said she could not afford them every day. If he came home to tea, an injured maid brought him a cup of cold stuff, probably warmed from the morning's teapot, with two slices of bread and butter on a plate.

This woman, sleeping so quietly, her long dark lashes lying on a sun-kissed cheek, would create a home, live in the quiet country, find companionship without eternal rushing about to her fellow-mortals; enjoy her month or two away, and then enjoy doubly the coming to her own home.

Man, with his pipe in his mouth and sitting in silence, dreams foolishly as some growing girl.

In Bertie's dream he saw Cliff End inhabited; he went round his farms, came back to the gardens to walk in them with a slender figure by his side, with a hundred things to think of, a hundred things to do. The simpler things which weld home life together. He saw toddling mites running to meet him, crying to their dada; a boy who must learn to swim and shoot and ride; a bonnie girl who would learn too, but less strenuously. He saw cold winter shut out, and two people who sat before a great fire, contented to sit still and talk or read. So thinking, the dream passed from waking; his eyes closed, and he, too, fell asleep.

A man strolling along the cliffs paused suddenly, whistled and paused, looking down at the two.

A sly-eyed, freckled youth, who whistled again, drew back, clicked the shutter of the camera he carried, and went on, laughing.

"A pretty picture," he said contemptuously.

Bertie awoke with the faint whistle in his ears—woke to find Estelle's ruffled head close against his own. He sat up, wondering how long he had been asleep.

The freckled stranger was visible just dipping down to the steep path which led to the sea.

"I hope he did not see us. Good Lord! I hope he did not see us!"

Estelle woke too, coming from sleep as a child does, rose-flushed, blinking, rubbing her eyes.

"Oh! I have been asleep," she cried, "wasting our day."

"Our day," he said, as if the words hurt him.

He pulled her to her feet. Estelle was not beautiful, but in her sweet, clear eyes, in the curve of her mouth, the soft brownness of her skin was something more dangerous than mere beauty. It was soul shining through her grey eyes, the power of love, the possibility of passion. It was intelligence, sympathy. Who wisely said some women make nets and others cages?

Esmé, Denise, Dollie, women of their type, could hold their cages out, catch a bird and watch it flutter, but, wearying of him, forget his sugar and his bird-seed, and leave the door open with the careless certainty of finding another capture.

But with a net woven about him, a strong net made of such soft stuff that it did not hurt, the captive bird was caught for life, meshed, ensnared for ever.

"Come—it is late," Bertie said.

As his hands closed on hers, Estelle felt the flush on her cheeks deepen, her hands grow cold. There is a wonder to all in the dawn of love; with some it leaps from the cold night into a sudden glow, not so much dawn as a glorious revealing of the sun. It was so with Estelle; there was no trembling opal in her mental sky, no gradual melting of the mists of twilight. She knew. She loved this man. He was another woman's husband, but she loved him—would love him to her life's end. He must never know, and yet, being intensely human as he helped her up the bank, there was a sick longing that he might care too, even if it meant their instant parting.

She fought it back; she was loyal and simple; her love must be her own; her joy and her despair.

"Hurry, Estelle; we shall miss the train," he said. "It's very late."

They were further away than they thought. The path by the river was rough; they ran panting up to the old house to see the man driving the dog-cart away from the door.

"It bain't no use, sir," he said; "she'm near station now, and it's two mile an' more."

"There's another?" Bertie said.

There was one more, getting them into London at four next morning. Estelle was put out, half frightened. Her aunt would be annoyed.

"But she will know it is an accident," she said. "And we can see the sea by moonshine now."

They saw it as they drove to the slow train, a wide shimmer of mystery, silver and grey and opal, frostily chill, wondrously limitless; the hoarse whisper of its waves booming through the still night.

"Esmé! Will Esmé mind?" Estelle asked as they steamed into London.

"She has gone to several balls; she will never know," he said a little bitterly.

He did not see Esmé again until next evening. The knowledge of this new thing in his life made him penitent, anxious to find again the charm of the golden hair, of the brilliantly-tinted skin. He came from a long interview with his uncle, whipping himself with a mental switch; determined to be so strong that his friendship with Estelle might continue as it was—reasoning out that he had been mad upon the cliffs, half asleep and dreaming.

He came in to find Esmé in one of her restless moods, reading over letters, peevishly crumpling bills, grumbling at poverty. He did not know that the memory of a pinched baby face was always before her eyes—that she feared for the life of the son she had sold.

"Why, Es," he said, and kissed her.

"Don't rumple my hair," she answered; "it's done for dinner."

"Worrying over bills?" he asked gently.

Esmé pulled away one letter which he had taken up. "I can pay them," she flashed peevishly. "Don't worry." Denise's allowance was due again—overdue—and Esmé did not like to write or telephone, and had not seen Lady Blakeney for a week.

It was due to her, and overdue to others. Claire's bill ran in for four pungent pages, and ran to three figures, which did not commence with a unit. There were jewels, the motor hire. Oh! of what use was five hundred pounds?

If she had had the boy here she would have gone to the country, been content for his sake.

"Don't worry." Bertie put his hand on hers. "Es—I've been talking to Uncle Hugh."

"Well?" She woke up, suddenly hopeful.

"Well, I'm his nephew. He will make me a big allowance, leave me all he has—if—"

"If what?" cried Esmé.

"If we have a son before he dies," said Bertie. "That is the only stipulation. If not, I remain as I am. He has some craze about another Hugh Carteret. Of course there will be the title later on."

"If we have a son." Esmé stood up and laughed. "A son!" she said, "a son! I—"

"Why, Esmé!" Bertie ran to her. "Oh, don't cry like that. My dear, don't cry like that."

The wild outburst of a woman in hysterics filled the little room.

CHAPTER X

"OH, of course, I'd forgotten." Denise had been reminded of her promise—looked vaguely annoyed. "H'm! I'm short now. Can't ask Cyrrie, can I? I'll bring you two hundred, Esmé! Give you some more in August, my quarter day."

"But I want it. I've run into debt counting on it," said Esmé, sullenly.

"Oh, you've got old Hugh to fall back on now Bertie's the heir. If I could ask Cyrrie—but I can't! Two hundred's a lot, Esmé. You must make it do."

"You'll be away in August," Esmé said. "You can't send me so much in a cheque."

"No. I'll get notes. I'll be sure to. I shall be at home. Wonders will never cease. I've got to keep very quiet just now," said Denise. "It's wonderful—and I'm not afraid."

"Oh!" Esmé sat up. "And—if it's a son, Denise, your own son—you—what will you do?"

"Yet must the alien remain the heir." Denise shrugged her shoulders. "I should never dare to tell. You don't know Cyrrie. He'd send me away somewhere with three hundred a year, and never see or speak to me again. For Heaven's sake, Es, remember that. Besides, it would all take some proving now."

"Be good to my boy or I'll claim him," said Esmé, stormily.

"Hush! Es. Don't!" Denise looked terrified. "And you dare not, either. Your Bertie would not forgive. Look here! I've got a pendant I don't want; take it and sell it. It's worth two hundred. And I'll scrape out three for you somehow. Oh, here's Cyrrie."

The big man came in. There was a sense of power about him and of relentless purpose. His under jaw, his deeply-set eyes, were those of a man who, once roused, could be cruel, and even merciless.

"Hello! Mrs Carteret." He was always cordial to Esmé. "We've missed you lately. Den, the boy's peaky—wants fresh air, his nurse says."

Esmé turned white, clenched her hands until her gloves split and burst.

"Send him to the sea," said Denise, carelessly. "Broadstairs, Cromer, anywhere, Cyrrie."

"No, I think we'll go home. It's better for you too." Sir Cyril's big jaw shot out. "We'll go home, Den. I've wired, and the boy can go on to-morrow. Drive down, it will do him good, in the big car."

"Oh!" Esmé saw that Denise objected, hated going, yet was afraid to object once her husband had decided.

"Oh, I'm glad you're sending him out of London," Esmé burst out. "He looks wretched. I am glad."

"He's your godson, isn't he?" laughed Blakeney. "You were good then, Mrs Carteret. Seen to-day's paper? That little fool of a Cantilupe woman has made a mess of it, and Cantilupe was right to take it to court. Seen the evidence? She forged his name to a cheque for five hundred to give to this wretched man. Trusted to Canty's absolute carelessness. He never looked at accounts. But the bank grew uneasy, 'phoned to Canty, and he said it was his signature all right and paid. Then he found out where the money had gone to, and all the rest, and she defended like a fool. The kindest fellow in the world, but he's merciless now. Told about the cheque so as to shame her."

"She was his wife. He should have remembered that," faltered Denise.

"She had deceived him," Sir Cyril answered. "No man worth the name forgets that. She deceived him. I couldn't forgive five minutes of it, especially as there are no children; not that sort of deceit. I was even too hard on folly once, but that's different." He went out of the room, big and strong and determined.

"Bother that boy!" stormed Denise. "There are three or four things I hate missing. Oh, bother! bother!" She stamped her foot in her impatience, frowning and biting at her fingers. "Oh, here, Esmé. Come to my room."

The maid was there, laying out a new gown.

"You can go, Sutton. Here! slip it away." Denise opened a case, pulled out a heavy pendant, a tasteless, valuable thing.

"Old Susan, Cyrrie's aunt, sent it to me when she heard I was a mother." Denise laughed. "Green said it was worth three hundred. I've loads of others, and no one will miss this. I'll get you the notes."

Denise was friendly again, more like her old self, but moved, as Esmé knew, by fear, and not by gratitude or love.

Denise was called to the telephone. Esmé was left alone for a time in the luxurious bedroom, standing by the open safe, enviously fingering the jewels. How lovely they were. A necklace of diamonds and emeralds; Cartier work; a jewelled snake with ruby eyes. A rope of pearls. Sapphires, opals, emeralds, all glowing as Esmé opened the cases.

"Oh, I thought her ladyship was here, mem," the maid had come in quietly. Esmé turned with a start.

"Her ladyship went to the telephone." Esmé closed her hand about the pendant, which she had been holding carelessly. She could see the maid watching her covertly.

"Oh, there you are, Denise." Esmé still held the heavy pendant, afraid to put it in her bag before the maid, afraid to show it.

"Yes. I'm late too. Cyril's waiting. We're lunching out. My hat, Sutton, my veil, quickly!"

Esmé slipped the pendant into her bag as the maid turned away. The Blakeneys drove her to Jules, where she said she would be lunching.

But, not hungry, she went on to Benhusan, a well-known jeweller, offering her pendant.

The head man took it, looking at the heavy stones.

"Yes, we could give two hundred for this, to break up. It's tasteless." He examined it carefully. "Came from us, originally," he said. "We all have our private mark, madam. Made to order, no doubt. I'll speak to Mr Benhusan, madam. One moment."

Esmé flushed with annoyance. They might look up the pendant, perhaps speak of it to someone.

She got two hundred and thirty for it and went out.

Mr Benhusan nodded at the heavy bauble. "It was made for the Dowager Lady Blakeney," he said. "I remember it. The centre stone is worth all the money we have given for it."

Absently, with a lack of her usual shrewdness, Esmé went to the door, opened it, and remembered her notes; they had paid her.

She had put three into her bag, when a thin hand shot out, grabbed the rest, and before she could even cry out, the thief was lost in the crowd.

Esmé stood stricken, shaking more with futile anger than anything else. Her brains were quick. If she went back, raised the hue and cry, what then? Bertie would ask her what pendant she was selling. The whole thing would come out.

Esmé walked away, her face white, her hands shaking. She counted what was left at her club in Dover Street; three notes for fifty each. So she was robbed of over a hundred, and someone must go unpaid. Unless Denise would make it up. There was too much loyalty in Esmé to think of working on her friend's fears. She sat brooding, smoking, too much upset to eat. A boy she knew came in, noticed her white cheeks—a thin and somewhat stupid youth, who posed as a Don Juan, considered himself irresistible.

"Not lookin' a bit well," he said. "No luncheon? Come along down to the Berkeley and have a little champagne. Let me look after you, dear lady."

Esmé was a beauty; he walked proudly with her, looking at her dazzling colouring, her well-formed, supple limbs.

She let herself be distracted by flattery, listened to foolish compliment, to praise of her glorious hair, her beautiful eyes.

Wouldn't she come for a drive some Sunday? The new Daimler was a dear. Down to Brighton or away into the country for a picnic. She must let him see more of her.

Angy Beerhaven leant across the table, empresse, showing how ready he was to love, to be a devoted friend.

Over champagne and sandwiches Esmé babbled a little, told of her loss, of how hard up she was.

With sympathy discreetly veiled behind his cigarette smoke, Angy hinted. Pretty women need never be hard up. Fellows would only find it a pleasure to make life easy for them if—there was friendship, real friendship, between good pals.

The restaurant was almost empty; they sat in a quiet corner. With wits suddenly sharpened, Esmé looked at the thin, weakly vicious face, at the boy's eyes glittering over her beauty, already seeing himself chosen. His carefully-tended hands were opening his gold cigarette-case. She shuddered. If she allowed those hands the right to caress her she could be free of debt and care—for a time.

Love affairs were butterflies of a season. Next year it would have to be someone else; there would be the distraction of it, the adoration which always pleases a woman; and then the fading, the breaking free. The meeting again with a careless good-morning, with the shame searing her soul as she remembered.

Distraction, a little less time to think, was what Esmé wanted. She saw too clearly for this. She had sold one birthright without thought; but not this second one of her self-respect.

She got up, smiling sweetly. It had been charming of Mr Beerhaven to look after her; she was feeling so much better now.

"But," he stood in front of her in her corner; she could see the eager look on his face. "But—she must let him go on taking care of her. Wouldn't she dine with him to-night? Do a theatre—have supper afterwards?"

Angy unadulterated from seven until one! Esmé smiled.

Unfortunately she was engaged, all day, every day this week. But would he lunch on Sunday? They were having a little party at the Ritz. He would meet her husband.

The eager look changed to one of sulky indecision. Angy Beerhaven was not sure if he could. If she'd have tea with him to-morrow he'd tell her.

Esmé promised to lightly; went away leaving the boy frowning.

"Is she one of your real stand-offs, or just wants to put a value on herself?" he muttered. "Bah! It's too much trouble if she does—pretty as she is."

Clutching the rest of her money, Esmé strolled about aimlessly; she gave up two engagements, would not go to her club because she was too restless to talk to her friends. Turned in at last to a tea-shop, where brown curtains made little alcoves, and thick blinds shaded the light. There were three or four tiny rooms, one opening from the other; the first where the decorous matron might sit and drink tea and eat muffins; the second and third where one could smoke; these rooms were separated by portières of Indian beads, rattling as one passed through.

Tired, her head aching from the champagne, Esmé went to the second room, sat down in a dim corner just by the door into the last, and ordered tea. It made her head clearer; she smoked, thinking deeply.

Voices drifted to her from the inner room. It was a mere cupboard, kept in semi-darkness.

She listened at length, listened with a start.

"Is it safe here by the door?"

The beads rattled. She heard Jimmie Gore Helmsley's voice.

"Only a few people get away. It's early yet. Look here, Syl, meet me at Brighton on Sunday. Do! We'll have a lovely day. I'll have a cousin—she lives there—to do propriety. Make some excuse and get off. We never have a day together."

"But if people heard of it?" Sybil Chauntsey faltered.

"No one will. No one we know goes to Brighton on Sundays, and if they do we are just taking a stroll. Do, Sybil! I deserve something. I—I wasn't hard-hearted over those bridge debts now, was I?"

Poor Sybil, with her hand pressed to her throat. She owed this man two hundred pounds now. If he went to her people she would be sent home in disgrace.

"No," she whispered. "No."

"We'll wipe 'em out for ever if you'll be a good child and have a simple spree. I'll give you back your I.O.U., your letters."

Her letters. Sybil knew that she had written two foolish, girlishly gushing notes, open to several constructions. In one she had spoken of that ripping tea at his rooms. She shivered again.

"I'll let you know," she faltered. "Oh! I'll try to come."

Esmé listened, but heard no more. Moving silently she slipped away to the blind-shaded window and got there just as the two came out. Her back was to them, her head hidden in a hastily-snatched-up newspaper. They did not notice her.

Tragedy and comedy were being played out, to each their lines and part.

Denise Blakeney, dressing for dinner, had to play her part without rehearsal.

"The sapphires, Sutton," she said, "the sapphires and diamonds. They'll go with this cream gown. And the aigrette with the sapphire stars."

Sutton's prim voice rose a little as she bent over the safe.

"Are you wearing the heavy diamond pendant, m'lady?"

"No." Denise flushed, bending over something on the dressing-table to hide her rising colour.

"It's not here, m'lady, and it was here at luncheon-time when I gave you the pink pearls."

"What's that?" Sir Cyril, big-jowled, heavy, strolled in.

Sutton repeated the news of the loss, turning over the cases. "The case is here," she said, "but I noticed it open."

"The pendant old Aunt Sukey sent?" Sir Cyril went to the safe himself. "That's valuable."

"I—it must be there somewhere. Lock the safe, Sutton." Denise would have told the maid she had sent the pendant to be cleaned. Cyril was one of the men who question closely. It would have been: "To which shop, Den? I could get it for you to-morrow."

"It must be there," she repeated sharply. "It's just muddled away; or I may have lost it. I'm very careless."

"We'll look to-morrow. It's time to go now." But big Cyril Blakeney stood still for a minute, staring at the safe; thoughts which he longed to smother rising in him.

He had seen Esmé Carteret bending over the safe, fingering the jewels. She could not ... it was a monstrous thing!

He put the idea away resolutely as though it were some crawling beast; came down to where his wife was getting into her motor.

"You must have dropped it," he said slowly, "but I thought you never wore the thing. We'll offer a reward."

"Oh, very well," Denise Blakeney answered nervously, pulling at the buttons of her gloves. "Oh, I may find it to-morrow. Wait and see. I often stuff things away into other places, if I am in a hurry."

"Esmé Carteret"—Denise could see the big, heavy face thrust forward, as Sir Cyril lighted a cigarette—"Esmé Carteret is—er—pretty well off, isn't she, now that old Hugh's sons are dead?"

"She says she's racked by poverty." Denise flushed and faltered at this mistake.... "Oh, yes, of course, he makes her a splendid allowance; he must, or Esmé could not go about as she does."

"You're an extravagant little monkey yourself," said Sir Cyril, equably. "I asked Richards a fortnight ago what your balance was, and he said five hundred. Yesterday I was in at the bank and he told me it was only a hundred."

"I paid bills and things." Denise was not enjoying her drive. Supposing this inquisitive husband of hers looked at her bank-book and saw a cheque for two hundred to self. He would ask what she had spent it on; if she had gambled? He was curiously particular about high play, and women losing foolishly.

Denise thought that she would change her bank; then knew again that she would be forbidden to. Cyril was indulgent, almost absurdly generous, but master in his own home. And—if he ever guessed—ever knew—Denise grew cold with chill fear; for, combined with dread, her shallow nature clung now to the big man beside her; she had forgotten her follies in the past.

It is a shallow nature's joy, it has power to forget.

On several separate stages the dramas and comedies were being played out, but in one great last act they might all come together for the finale, and be called true tragedy then.

Sybil Chauntsey was playing her little part. Half frightened, half resentful, trying to call herself a baby, to tell her awakening woman's mind that Jimmie Gore Helmsley was only her pal, that she was a fool to think otherwise. And then the look in the black eyes, the little subtle caresses he had given her, gave this the lie.

Sybil would not go to a dance that evening; she pleaded headache, sat in her stuffy room, looking out across the hot slates, thinking.

She was afraid. Who would help her now to pay this man and so get out of his power? She had learned to dread him.

She jumped up suddenly, ran to her writing-table. Old memories crowded back to her, her first years of coming out, when she had been so happy. She saw the library at the Holbrooks', felt warm young hands on hers, heard a voice saying:

"But if you are ever in any trouble, if you want help, send for me. I shall always be ready."

Her young soldier lover would help her now; and with wet eyes above the paper she wrote on, Sybil knew how she would turn to him again. How gifts of flowers and sweets, expensive dinners and suppers, stolen interviews for tea and subtle flattery, had lost their charm.

She only wrote a few lines, posted it to York, where his regiment was stationed; she wanted his help, urgently; would he come to her at once?

So the hot curtain of night fell on another act for Sybil.

Esmé had gone home after tea, found Bertie there, resting in the flowerless drawing-room.

With nerves strung up, with her hidden excitement wearing her out, she came to him, threw herself suddenly on her knees beside him, laid her face against his, tried to wake the thrill which the touch of his lips had given her once.

Bertie, surprised, drew her to him, kissing the red mouth.

It had been innocent of lip salve when he had kissed them first; her soft cheeks had not been plastered with expensive creams and powder. As hungry people imagine feasts, so Esmé sought for forgetfulness in passionate kisses, in new transports of love. Sought—and found no place. It seemed to her that Bertie had grown cold, that he no longer cared for her. He had never been a sensualist, only an honest lover.

Whispered hints of Gore Helmsley's, little stories he had told her, came to her as she rested her cheek against her husband's.

"Dear old Es," he said affectionately, but not passionately. "Dear old butterfly, it's nice to have my girlie loving again; but we'll be late for dinner if we don't dress quickly. Es, call your maid."

Esmé rang listlessly; she hardly knew what she wanted, save that it was something which would wipe away her bitter thoughts.

Through dinner she was recklessly merry, witty in her flashing way; brilliantly, a little haggardly, pretty. The patches of pink were more pronounced on her cheeks, her powder thicker.

Then, driving home in the cool, she remembered Sybil Chauntsey. Here was another woman about to make a mistake, to realize too late, as she had done, that money cannot repay peace of mind. Deep, too, in Esmé's mind, was a horror of sinning. She was instinctively pure herself; her ideas set deeply in a bed of conventionality. A girl of Sybil's type would suffer all her life if she once slipped, perhaps afterwards grow completely reckless, look on her one sin as so deadly that a host of others could matter little, and might drown thought.

Esmé forgot Sybil until Sunday morning. Angy Beerhaven had proved himself in earnest, had almost insisted on a trip in his new car. "Bring anyone—your husband and a friend," he said.

Esmé had agreed heartily. There was Estelle; she would like the drive. As the huge cream-coloured Daimler hummed softly at her door, Angy asked where they would go to.

"The sea would be lovely to-day," he said. "Or there are the Downs or the Forest."

"The sea!" Esmé shot out swiftly. "The sea!" she said.

"Then Brighton. It's a nice run; there are decent hotels. One only gets cold beef and cutlets in heaps of places."

"Brighton let it be," she said carelessly.

The Daimler seemed a live monster purring as she flew along the smooth roads, laughing at her hills, answering sweetly to her brakes, swinging her great length contemptuously past weaker sisters.

The salt kiss of the sea was on their faces as they dipped into Brighton.

"We'll run out again afterwards," Angy said; "get a good blow."

Esmé had been a merry companion on the way down.

Strolling on the front, Esmé started suddenly. Sybil might be here; she remembered the conversation now. In the huge place it would be almost impossible to find her. Jimmie would not come to the best-known hotels.

But if she could—it would be worth some trouble.

Esmé's fit of boredom vanished. She was full of plans. They would run off for a long run, come back to tea, dine again in Brighton and go home in the cool.

"They'll be quite happy anywhere," she said, nodding towards Estelle and Bertie. "We can go off by ourselves."

Angy's hopes grew deeper. His fatuously ardent glances were more frequent. He whispered eager nonsense to Esmé, hinted at happy future drives and meetings, of lending her the car altogether if she liked.

To have a sixty Daimler at one's disposal would be convenient, but as it would generally include Angy Beerhaven as chauffeur, Esmé shrugged her shoulders. A taxi suited her better, though she did not say so.

After tea she grew restless; wanted to see other hotels, to inspect Brighton. The Metropole was too crowded.

"Come with me," she said to Angy; "we'll prospect, and telephone here if we find some nest which suits me."

A cabman gave her information.

"Quiet hotels, but smart, nice? He'd tell of one, yes, miss, he would."

It was only as they went on that Esmé realized the smirk of innuendo on the man's red face.

"Often driven parties there as wanted to be quiet an' comfabul," said Jehu, taking a shilling graciously. "Thank you, lady, and good luck."

Esmé went to two or three places, read the dinner menu carefully, made Angy wonder what restless spirit possessed her, then came to the jarvey's recommendation, a small hotel facing the sea, standing modestly behind a long strip of garden. The garden was full of roses and shrubs, so that the porch was almost concealed.

The lady peering out of the little office was unmistakably French.

"Madame wished to see the dinner menu—but certainly! Madame would want a private room, no doubt; the coffee-room was small and the tables already crowded."

"It is a hotel of private rooms," said Esmé to herself. She went on to a small, dimly-lighted veranda, set with huge palms and cunningly-placed nooks. She paused abruptly.

"I must go back! Oh, I must!" said Sybil's voice. "We shall miss the train—please let me."

"My cousin cannot be any time. Most annoying her being out all day. Don't spoil a perfect day, little Sybil. There's a late train we can catch. Or, better still, hire a car and drive up."

Esmé turned swiftly to her somewhat bewildered cavalier.

"Oh, Mr Beerhaven," she said. "Will you go to the telephone—order dinner at the Metropole, and see if they have quails—and peaches. It's the best place, after all. I'll wait here for you. Hurry, or they won't have shot the quails."

Angy left, ruminating on the logic of women.

"But give me my letters," she heard Sybil plead. "Please do! You promised them if I came here to-day."

"I promised—I will fulfil. After dinner you shall have your letters, little girl. Now, don't get silly and nervous."

"Of course I'll send you that money when I can," Sybil faltered, "but—"

"I won't ask you for the money. You were a good child to come here, little Sybil."

Esmé looked in.

Sybil was lying back in a long chair, her face white, her eyes half resentful, half fascinated. Jimmie Helmsley, bending over her, began to stroke her hands softly. His dark eyes bore no half thoughts in them.

"After dinner," he whispered. "I won't tease you any more about that silly debt."

Esmé pushed aside a spiky frond; she was righteously angry.

"Oh, Sybil," she said. "Your mother asked me if I came across you to take you home in our car. I was sampling hotels and luckily ran you to earth."

Sybil sprang up. Resentment, fascination, merged to sudden wild relief. She had told her mother that she was spending the day with a school friend.

"But—How very lucky your running across us." Gore Helmsley's teeth showed too much as he smiled; it made his greeting exceedingly like a snarl.

"Oh, yes, so lucky." Esmé listened to Helmsley's pattered explanation. "His cousin, Mrs Gore, etc. Very awkward. Out of Brighton. They had come here to wait for her."

"Very awkward," said Esmé, drily. "Well, you must join us at dinner. You can't wait here—alone."

A waiter padded noiselessly in. Dinner would be ready in ten minutes in Number Twenty-seven. They had procured the roses which Monsieur had ordered.

It amused Esmé a little to watch Gore Helmsley fight back his anger, mask himself in a moment in a thin cloak of carelessness. He followed the waiter into the hall.

"Sybil," said Esmé, sharply, "this is not wise, not right."

"We came to meet a cousin," Sybil whimpered. "She never came. I had to come—I had to. And now he's angry." She shivered a little, half tearful, half frightened.

"No, she would not come," said Esmé, drily; "but lie as I lie, my child, or there may be some pretty stories floating about London."

"Oh! you've ordered dinner," she said to Angy, "and I've just found Miss Chauntsey. She was dining with Captain Helmsley's cousin, Mrs Gore. But she is putting her off and joining our party at the Metropole."

Mr Beerhaven opened his mouth twice without emitting any particular sound.

"She's just gone home, hasn't she, Sybil?" said Esmé. "Quite a pretty woman. Come along."

Again Angy opened his mouth and shut it. It was not his part to say that he knew Mrs Gore to be in London. Angy was not altogether bad-hearted and he disliked Jimmie Gore Helmsley.

"Rotten!" said Mr Beerhaven, speaking at last.

"Eh?" said Esmé, sharply.

"Rotten luck, y'know, on Mrs Gore, but so glad. We'd better drive back. And a rotten chap," said Angy, forcibly. "You're a brick, Mrs Carteret." This speech made Esmé understand that Angy Beerhaven was not as big a fool as he looked.

In the cab Sybil leant back, frightened. She was afraid of Gore Helmsley's too-pleasant smile—afraid of the look in his eyes.

Esmé had whispered a few swiftly-spoken words to him, directing that their lies should be alike.

"It was exceedingly awkward," she said drily.

Angy had ordered everything he could think of. They began on iced caviare and finished up with forced peaches. He was exceedingly rich, and a snare wrought of gold was the only one he knew of.

Sybil was quiet through dinner, eating nothing, visibly unhappy.

Afterwards, as they sat in the cool, smoking, Gore Helmsley slipped to her side.

"Was there ever anything so unlucky?" he said.

"It was—very unlucky," said Sybil, dully.

"That woman hunting round for dinner, so she says. She's fairly decent, I fancy, won't blab. She lied brilliantly. It was so very awkward, and now Cissy will be quite disappointed. She 'phoned to say she was just starting to meet us. It was a lovely day together," he whispered. "Come to tea with me to-morrow, Sybil."

"You promised me my letters," she shot out, her heart thumping, "and my I.O.U. Give them to me."

"To-morrow," he said lightly. "I would have given them to you to-night, Sybil. Silly child ever to sign things."

Sybil's lip trembled; the snare was about her feet.

A tall man pushed his way through the crowd, looking anxiously at the tables. He was covered with the dust of a long journey; he came quickly, staring at each group.

"Oliver!" Sybil sprang to her feet, rushed across to him. "Oh, Captain Knox, why did you not come yesterday?"

"I only got back to York this morning. I motored to London, and it took me hours to find your mother. Who is that—in the shadow?"

"Captain Gore Helmsley." Sybil's voice grew shrill.

"And Sybil is here with me," said Esmé, coming out of another shadow. "Take her for a walk before we start. I want to talk to my friend here."

"Sybil—why did you write for me like that?"

"I wanted you to save me, and you never came," she faltered.

"But I am not too late. My God, not that!"

Then, stumblingly, she told him her story of sorrow.

"I was going to ask you to pay the debt for me," she said, "to get me clear. I dare not tell my mother or father."

"I brought money, as you said you wanted it; and there is nothing more, Sybil?" he said, taking her hands.

"Nothing. We spent the day here—waiting for Mrs Gore. And oh, I was afraid."

"Mrs Gore is in London. I saw her as I was looking for your mother."

"In London!" Sybil's cheeks grew very white. It had all been a lie. She would have dined at the small hotel, waiting for the woman who could never have joined them. And afterwards, alone with the man she feared and yet who influenced her.

Sybil was no innocent fool; the blackness of the chasm she had just missed sliding into was plainly before her eyes.

She flung herself suddenly into Knox's arms.

"Oh, Oliver, if you want me still, take me," she sobbed, "for I am a fool, and not fit to look after myself. I don't mind being poor; I only want you."

Captain Gore Helmsley, meanwhile, was listening to a few softly-uttered home-truths from Esmé Carteret.

"You might have ruined the child's reputation," she said angrily. "She was a fool to come here with you. Married women are fair game, Jimmie, but a girl has not learnt how to guard. It's not fair."

Sybil, with the frightened look gone from her eyes, came back to the table on the veranda.

"I owe you some money, Captain Gore Helmsley," she said clearly, "for bridge debts. It was good of you to let it stand over." She laid a cheque on the table. "Will you give me back my acknowledgments? Oliver is paying for me—we are going to be married."

Jimmie, smiling sweetly, pulled out his pocketbook, took from it a neatly-folded paper.

"And—two letters—referring to the debt," said Sybil, steadily.

"Not altogether to the debt." Jimmie laughed. "You are as unkind now, Miss Chauntsey, as you are dramatic."

"I want them," she said coldly. "You gave me your promise that I should have them back."

Jimmie took out the letters.

"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."

"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.

The years had changed her greatly. Her dazzling beauty had not so much faded as hardened. Her eyes were still bright, her hair gold; but the flush of red-and-white was all art now; her mouth had tightened; the brightness of her blue eyes was that of aching restlessness.

She had tried rest cures and come away half maddened by the quiet, by her leisure to think. She had travelled and come home to England because the boy was there.

Sometimes she would turn to Bertie, show the same half-wild outbursts of tenderness which she had first shown on the day she had sold the pendant; trying to find comfort in his caresses, clinging to him, pouring out tender words. Then the phase would pass. Without perfect confidence perfect love cannot exist. There was a secret between them; they were lovers no longer. For weeks she would go her own careless way, spending recklessly, always in debt, paying off the mites on account which make debts rolling snowballs, mounting until they crush the maker.

Sometimes Denise was difficult to get at; sometimes she said she was afraid of Sir Cyril. The boy's price came in small sums, fifties, twenties; often frittered away on a day or two's foolish amusement.

Old Hugh Carteret made his will, left it ready for signature.

"When you have a child, Bertie, I will leave you everything," he said, "and make your allowance up to what my boys had." He sighed as he spoke of his loss.

Esmé would have welcomed a child now—a mite to wipe out Cyril's memory, but none came to her.

She had taken to concealing her debts, to paying them as well as she could, for Bertie grew sterner as the years passed.

"I believe that Reynolds girl advises him," Esmé once confided to Dollie Gresham. "They're always talking sense."

"So frightfully trying," sympathized Dollie kindly; "kind of thing one learns up for maiden aunts, or uncles about to die; but in everyday life, unbearable."

Esmé's old friends dropped her a little; she lost her fresh, childish charm; she was always hinting at her poverty; asking carelessly to be driven about in other people's cars, picking up bundles of flowers and carrying them off, vaguely promising to send the money for them; but she hadn't time to go round to get her own. She wanted now to be entertained rather than entertain. She was feverishly anxious to win at bridge, and irritable to her partner if they lost.

The club saw more of her. Men friends dropped Esmé after a time; the disinterested spending of money is not the way of ordinary mankind. Dinners, suppers, flowers, theatres must have their credit account on one side of the ledger; and Esmé would have none of it.

Behind the aching love for her lost boy she liked her husband, and even if she had not liked him, would not have deceived him.

Stolen interviews, bribed maids, carefully-arranged country-house visits, were not of her life.

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.

The girl was so completely fresh and virginal, with a new beauty growing in her face and sweet grey eyes. She was lithe, active; he watched her run to catch his wife, to walk in beside her.

Esmé was quite young, but she walked stiffly; she was growing angular.

The two women pulled to the flap of the tent, flinging off their dripping things. Esmé had thrown a silken wrapper over her shoulders; she stood looking into the long glass she had hung up in a corner. A sense of futile anger racked her as she looked; the powder was streaked on her face; the rouge standing out patchily; she looked plain, almost old. The mirror showed her slim body, with limbs growing too thin, with her girlish outlines spoilt and gone. Behind her, unconscious of scrutiny, she watched Estelle drying herself vigorously, perfect of outline, with rounded arms moving swiftly, slight and yet well-covered, a model of girlish grace.

With a muttered exclamation Esmé looked at tell-tale marring lines, began hastily to put on her expensive under-garments; cobwebby, silken things, trimmed with fine real lace.

"Go for my powder, Scott"—Esmé's maids never stayed with her for long—"for my powder, quickly!"

"A clumsy woman." Esmé lighted a cigarette, sat in the shadow, accentuating the age she had seen by knowing of it, lines of unhappiness deepening in her handsome face.

Scott, objecting to a quarter of a mile in scorching heat, went mincingly. Came back with powder alone, without rouge or lip salve, or face cream—stood woodenly listening to an outburst of abuse. They were going on at once to a picnic luncheon; the motors were waiting. Denise had called out twice impatiently.

"You said powder, mem."

"I cannot go like this. I must get back; and they will not wait."

Esmé had denounced the picnic as a bore in the morning; now she knew what it would be like to sit alone at a cold luncheon and miss the drive.

"Madame"—a soft voice spoke outside the flaps of the tent. Scott, enraged and giving notice, had left to bridle in the sunshine—"is there anything I can do for Madame?"

It was Esmé's old maid, Marie. The girl came in with a Frenchwoman's deftness, and pulled a make-up box from her pocket.

"Pauvre, madame; after the bath too. I always carry this."

Marie dabbed swiftly until the streaked complexion was made cunningly perfect. Marie was out of a place—had left her last mistress, a plebeian nobody.

"With no dresses to come to me but those in violet silks or of the colour called tomato!" cried Marie. "Oh, Madame! And with no life, no gaiety, nothing but five-o'clock parties, and long luncheons, and, madame—oh, but raging when she lost at the bridge. Mon Dieu! So I left Madame. It is true one night I did put on the false plait—oh, but not carefully, for a dinner, but after a great scolding my fingers did tremble. Madame's great guest was an Eveque, what you call down Church, and strict. James the footman told me, and it was dreadful; it was to his lap the loose plait fell. I left. Madame is ravishing, and I would I were again in the service of my dear Madame."

It was easily arranged. Esmé forgot that Marie might know a little and guess more. She sent the irate Scott away immediately, and directed Marie to the house they were lodging in.

A glance at the glass had made Marie seem indispensable; a brilliantly handsome face was reflected there now, pink-cheeked, white-skinned, smooth.

"Esmé! What have you been doing? We are hopelessly late, and we are driving you."

"All my powder was washed off"—Esmé was frank, up to a certain point—"I'm sorry, Denise."

"And Cyril will bring the children; they are gone in the small car." Denise was irritated, impatient.

Sir Cyril drove; a big, pearl-grey Mercedes hummed away, nosing through traffic, sensitive as a child, eager as a hunter.

The picnic was on the cliffs, miles away. They lunched in a dazzling sun, since it is ever in the mind of man that he enjoys himself more away from his own cool dining-room, seated on hard ground in the heat.

The Blakeneys' cook knew that which was indigestible and therefore indispensable. Lobster mayonnaise, cold salmon, devilled shrimps, galantines, pastry, whipped cream.

The appetite of picnickers is a great thing, and one which towards tea-time wonders what possessed it. But girls laughed merrily, planning strolls by the shimmering sea; they had brought shrimp nets. Girls with pretty, unspoiled feet would take off shoes and stockings and paddle into pools, treacherous places where one slipped and wanted help to steady one.

Other girls would sit quiet in shady nooks. Youth loves its picnics where it may wander in couples; and mamma loves them, knowing how sunshine and fresh air and the folly of shrimp-hunting all lead to the hour when the young man feels he cannot do without the merry, pretty, foolish thing who cries "A crab!" and clings to him.

Denise had asked young people; she had no London friends down here. She watched them pair off as she sat down in the shade—listened to shrill laughs and merry voices.

Esmé, yawning, bored again, strolled away alone; there was no one she wanted to talk to. The sea had slipped far out; opal-tinted pools gleamed on the sands and shingle; brown seaweed clung to the rocks.

The children, busy with pails, were gathering shells and stones, looking with delight at the gay colours of the pebbles as they picked them up, wet and glistening, to fade into dull-hued things of red and brown and grey.

Esmé waited with them; helped Cyril to find yellow shells and brilliant bits of polished brick and pebble.

He looked pale, wistful. It was in her mind to shriek out her secret aloud—to pick the child up and cry out that he was hers and she would keep him.

How she had dreaded his coming; how gladly she had arranged the plot with Denise. And now she knew that her heart was no harder than other women's; that nature was stronger than her love of indolence and pleasure. If she had been honest and patient Bertie would be heir now to several thousands a year, and this child, her son, to a title. He was hers and she had cheated him, given him to a loveless life, sent him into unhappiness. Who would have dreamt of Denise having a child, of the bitter jealousy of this false son.

"And we dare not," whispered Esmé to the pebbles, "we dare not tell."

Cyril was settling his pebbles in rings and loops, making quaint patterns of them, on a strip of dry sand.

"Funny thing." Bertie Carteret strolled across to his wife. "I was always at that when I was a kiddie. Let me help, Cyril. I used to love making patterns."

"Did you?" said Cyril, solemnly. "I does."

Esmé saw the faces together. There was a likeness, faint, but yet plainly visible. The same level eyebrows, finely-cut nose, and eyes with their power to suffer.

"Playing?" Sir Cyril joined them, the children's faces lighting up, for they loved the big man. "We'll all play. Let's dig a castle. Cyrrie"—his arm closed round the elder boy—"mummie says you were naughty to-day—pushed Cecil."

"Mummie made a miftook," said Cyril equably.

"Mummies never make miftooks," Sir Cyril answered gravely. "Never. Cyril must be a better boy and not bully the baby. I don't want to punish you, Cyril."

"It doesn't last long, dad—if she'd like you to." The boy's eyes, with an old look in them, met Sir Cyril's. "I don't mind, dad—it's soon over."

Esmé's fingers closed on a handful of pebbles, so closely that when she let the wet stones fall her hands were marked and bruised.

The boy was telling them calmly that he was used to punishment. Her boy!

Sir Cyril grunted to himself. His wife adored delicate Cecil; had never cared for the elder boy. It puzzled the big man, vexed him, so that he made a pet of Cyril, loving him as the child whose coming had made such a change in his own life; the strong, big boy who was a credit to the name.

Foolish young people hunted for shrimps until they were weary; then, looking at the advancing sea, they whispered how dreadful it would be to drown, and listened, flushing, as proud young manhood assured them that to swim to shore with such a burden would be a joy. The crawling baby waves, inch deep in their advancing ripples, heard and laughed. To prove devotion young manhood would have welcomed white-crested rollers, swift currents running fiercely between them and the land.

Bertie had wandered far out, Estelle Reynolds with him.

They talked of books and plays, but always ending with the same subject, the lives of two human beings called Albert and Estelle.

"If one only could live down at Cliff End," he said. "I wanted to go there now, but Esmé would come here. Oh, how tired I am of asphalte and 'buses, and the comforts of clubs. I hunted five days last winter, Estelle."

"But you shot a lot," she said.

"At huge house-parties, with a two-hours' luncheon to be eaten in the middle of the day, and bridge to be played when one is dead sleepy after dinner. I have an old-fashioned liking for scrambling over rough ground with a setter and a spaniel, and bringing home a few snipe and a pheasant or a couple of duck. They give me more joy than my pile of half-tame pheasants, reared for slaughter, or my partridge or grouse. My friends wouldn't come to my shoots, Estelle. And—Esmé's friends"—he shrugged his shoulders—"they are too smart for me. She's straight herself as Euclid's line, but—one hears and sees—Dollie Gresham, for instance."

"Well?" said Estelle.

"She is a very clever bridge player," he said drily. "Oh, I say nothing, but I've watched the people she picks out to play with. Aspiring idiots who think high stakes give them a reputation as fine players. There's Gore Helmsley, too—the black-eyed Adonis. I meet him everywhere, and my desire to kick him flourishes unappeased. There are queer stories afloat about the man. There was Sybil Knox; she won't speak to him now, almost cut him at the Holbrooks last Christmas. He's running after Lady Gracie de Lyle now, a little, dolly-faced baby who goggles into his black eyes and thinks him magnificent."

"Oh, Bertie! Goggles!" said Estelle.

"Well, she does. She's got china-blue eyes, just like saucers; and she's barely eighteen. I spoke to her mother, and she said it would make the girl less school-girly to be taken up for a month or two by a smart man—that is a word," grunted Bertie, "which I'd like to bury. 'Smart'—it's a cloak for folly, extravagance, display and gambling—for worse. Never be smart, Estelle."

Estelle looked at her brown hands and remarked drily that she did not think she ever would be.

"They know no rest, these people," he said. "They wake to remember all they absolutely must do, and how many meals they must eat with their friends. Madame breakfasts in bed. Monsieur picks at devilled kidneys in the dining-room. He has his glass of port at twelve at the club. She has hers before she goes shopping. Then luncheon, bridge, drives, parties, tea; more bridge-parties, cocktails, dinner. Theatre, and bridge, a ball; supper; bridge again; devilled bones and chloral; they are too tired to sleep naturally. And since all this must pall, they must have some zest of novelty, and so go through the oldest round on earth—that of stolen meetings and hidden letters, and the finding out if a new lover has really anything new to say to them. If they lived in the country and looked after their houses and their gardens, and just had a yearly outing to amuse them, they wouldn't all go wrong from sheer nerves. The Town is swallowing home life, Estelle; the smell of the asphalte gets into their nostrils, the glitter and noise of restaurants become necessity. We cannot be bothered with a cook, so the restaurant for the flat can send us in what it chooses, called by any name it pleases. We get our breakfasts in now in the new flat. And anything else we want. Esmé only keeps two maids. Everything is exceedingly cold by the time I get it, and if we have people to dine it means crowds of things from Harrod's, but it all saves trouble. And to save trouble is the spirit of the age. To eat glucosey jams, and drink cider which never heard of apples, and so forth. I believe, in the future, that every square and street will have its monster kitchens with lifts running to each house. No one will cook."

"And one day," said Estelle, laughing, "will come the swing of the pendulum, and we shall go back to an England which bakes and preserves and brews, and finds out how healthy it makes its children."

"No." Bertie shook his head. "We are going too fast for that. So fast that one day, with its motors and aeroplanes, old England will find it has fallen over a cliff, and lies buried in the sand of Time, forgotten. The brakes will not always act, and exceeding the speed limit generally ends in disaster. We are a mighty nation, but always, always the sea-road for our supplies. We should starve here in a month if that was stopped. Some day it will be—by some strategy. Tea is ready—let us forget lobster and eat again."

Hot-faced footmen had built a big fire on the shore. The couples came flocking back to eat and drink again. Some shyly radiant, their afternoon a golden memory; others laughing too loudly for happiness; others visibly bored.

"The most absolute dullard," Rose whispered to her cousin, Hilda Hamilton. "He only made two remarks the whole afternoon, and one was 'that shrimpin' was shockin'ly wet.' And the other that 'he did hope it wouldn't wain to spoil the bathin'.'"

"Oh, Rose, he didn't lisp," laughed Hilda.

"Well, he ought to, he's such an idiot. Yes, I'll take muffins, thank you. How clever toasting them."

"There was a fire," said the dull youth, sapiently; "it made it easier."

"Oh, it would." Miss Rose giggled over her muffin.

The opal tints grew wider on the sea as it creamed in over the sands; the murmur of the baby waves grew louder.

Marie was airing her triumphant return at the door of Esmé's pretty house. She had tripped into the bedroom, altered and arranged, peered into the cupboards.

"Ciel! but Madame has now an outfit," said Marie; "it is good that I return. Evidently Madame has an income."

Scott, the ousted one, waited stolidly for her wages, and grumbled in the kitchen, hinting spitefully that she might not receive them at once.

Marie settled and sang, and settled, poring over the heaped letters on Esmé's tables, raising her thin eyebrows at the gathering of bills.

"I wonder"—Marie laid down an urgent letter from a Bond Street firm—"where Madame went when she sent me away. I have always wondered," said Marie, tripping down the path of the little garden.

A young man strolling by stopped in amazement, listened to Marie's voluble explanations. A freckled youth, who kept a little hairdresser's shop, and hoped in time to keep fair Marie over it as part proprietress. Marie possessed schemes for moving westwards and becoming affluent. The youth's name was Henry Poore, his hobby photography.

"Tiens! they come, and you must go," said Marie, seeing the big motor humming to the door of the Blakeneys' house. "Ah! it is well that I came here, for there are many clothes and a fine wage, and voila! there is Monsieur le Capitaine. See, he stands with a thin mees."

Henry Poore looked down the road. "Seems I've seen him before," he said. "Sure I have."

"Laikely. Ze world is full of meetings," observed Marie. "He was soldier; he has now retire. Oh, Henri, I am happy. Nevair did I have so good a time as with this Madame. You shall come to do her hair for ze Court. You shall be great hairdresser. Allez vite, quick!"

Marie made an appointment, and Henry walked off. But the invisible lines of fate were closing round Esmé. She had taken up one herself when she re-employed Marie, who knew just a little too much.

Scott, dourly respectful, waited for her due.

"Four months, mem, if you please."

"Give it to her, Bertie. I am tired."

"But—I gave you the wages cheque each month, Esmé," Bertie said sharply. "Why did you not pay the woman?"

"I suppose I spent it on something else. Don't fuss over a few pounds. Give it to her and let her go. Tell her not to come to me for recommendations."

Esmé strolled off to give herself over to the deft brown hands, to be powdered, tinted into new beauty, to have her golden hair re-done.

"It is not the money. It is only a few pounds, but it is always the same thing," muttered Bertie to himself as he wrote the cheque, "always."

"Sure to be right, sir?" Scott permitted herself a little veiled insolence.

"Right? What do you mean, Scott?"

"Mrs Carteret's were not always, sir," snapped Scott, primly. "Several shops have had to apply again. Thank you, sir. Good-night."

The block of a fat cheque-book was looked at unhappily. The balance left was so small, and there was no more money due until Christmas. Bertie Carteret sighed drearily. Another lot of shares must go; long-suffering luck be trusted to replace them.

Esmé, in one of her gay moods, came down, dressed in filmy white, black velvet wound in her burnished hair, a glittering necklace at her throat. She chattered incessantly, hung about Bertie with one of her outbursts of affection.

Marie had given Madame ah, but a tiny thing for the nairves, a thing she had learnt of at Madame la Comtesse's and treasured the prescription. Marie had prescribed further, suggested massage, a sure cure for nervous ills.

Esmé made plans in her head; leapt from reckless despair to reckless hope. She spent in imagination the big allowance Bertie's uncle would give them; she saw herself "my lady." She felt clinging fingers in hers, saw baby faces in her house. She would brush away the effect of her own wicked folly; she would be happy and rich and contented.

So, with her thoughts leaping ahead, she frightened Bertie by talking of her plans; they comprised country houses, a yacht, hunters, jewels, new frocks.

"I'll have that sable coat altered. The Furrier Company will do it for a hundred pounds. I'm sick of it. We'll go to Tatts, Bertie, and buy you a couple of hunters."

"Out of what?" he asked gravely.

"Out of—futurity," Esmé laughed. "Estelle, don't look sensible; it worries me. Look here, children, I'm not well. I'm going over to Paris to see Legrand. That dull doctor's wife I met to-day says he can cure death itself. And then, when I am well—"

With flushed cheeks and shining eyes she perched on the arm of Bertie's chair, her fingers caressing his hair. "And then," she said, bending and whispering to him.

He flushed, but took her hot white fingers in his.

"Oh, it's for that," he said, in a low voice—"for that, Esmé."

"For that. Then I'll settle down—give up Society," she said, jumping up and running to the window. "Come, we'll go out and join the trippers. I wonder Denise has not sent for me to play bridge. No, we won't go out; ring up the Adderleys, Bertie. They'll always play.... It's too dull just walking out in the dark."

It was always too dull to do anything which left room for thought.

Esmé played until morning, then, with the effect of the nerve tonic worn off, went irritably upstairs, knowing that nothing but chloral would give her rest that night.

"Tell Monsieur I am not well, that I must sleep alone. That will do, Marie. You can go."

Marie held the cobwebby nightdress ready to put on, but Esmé sent the maid away.

Marie laid down the scented silken thing and went thoughtfully.

CHAPTER XII

"I fear it is unlikely, Madame. I am very sorry." Dr Legrand put his capable finger-tips together, looked sympathetically at the tall, golden-haired Englishwoman who had come to consult him.

"The child died, then, Madame—that another is so important?" he asked kindly.

Esmé flushed scarlet. "It—yes—I lost it," she said bitterly, her eyes filling with tears. "I lost him. And I am not likely to have another?"

"Frankly, no, Madame. But you are young. Madame is nervous, says she cannot sleep without something. Give the something up, Madame; there is a little death, a little madness, bottled in each innocent dose. Go to the country, live in the open air. Get Madame's nerves well, then perhaps your wish may be realized."

Esmé sat silent, growing sullen, raging at fate. Why should this be? Why had she been treated so cruelly?

If—oh, if! The word which makes our sorrow into madness—that word "if." If she had known, had guessed, what the future would bring.

As she sat there fuming it did not come to her that the great scales of the world weigh and adjust; that for sinning we are punished, either by the bitterness of our own remorse, or by something withheld. Right holds its steady poundage, while wrong flies upwards, light of weight and false.

A mother had sold her child, carelessly, heartlessly, that she might enjoy her life. What did it matter? Children were easy things to find if one wanted them. And now she sat baffled, miserable, the price no use to her, spent before it came, yet did not blame herself, but cruel chance.

"Well"—Esmé got up slowly, putting the great man's fee on the table—"bon jour, Monsieur."

"Adieu, Madame." He took the dry hand kindly. "It was no doubt the loss of the boy which has made Madame nervous, not well. It has preyed on your mind, Madame."

"It has," she rasped out bitterly, "and always will. Well, adieu, Monsieur."

Dr Legrand wrote an entry in his book: "Mrs Eva Smith of West Kensington, London."

"And yet," he said to himself, "she looked more angry than sorrowful."

Pulling down her thick veils, Esmé followed the man-servant across the hall. She had dressed very plainly, hidden her face by thick black gauze and net.

A little dark man was coming on to the steps, whistling cheerily. Seeing him Esmé started and jumped into her waiting taxi.

The little man passed her, went into the doctor's, as one who had an appointment. For a moment he, too, had hurried, but the taxi had sped past him.

"A cher Nonno," he cried, gripping the Frenchman's hand.

"A la bonne heure, Luigi."

"So Milady Blakeney comes to consult you," Luigi said. "She passed me."

"Milady Blakeney? No! A Meeses Smith, of Londres, a handsome creature, but artificial, racked by late hours and chloral."

"It was so like Milady," Luigi said. The doctor's consulting hour was over; the two were at leisure. "I attended her. A fine boy."

"Yes." The Frenchman appeared to be very interested in his finger-nails. "Yes—there were no complications, were there?"

"H'm!" Luigi Frascatelle sighed. "She came through well. But—I did not tell her—there is never likely to be another bambino." He dropped into medical explanation, gave a few details.

"Never," said Luigi. "But why tell her?"

Legrand took up his book. "Mrs Eva Smith, of London," he said thoughtfully. "H'm! She was dark, this milady?"

"Dark? No, but fair as the angels," exclaimed Luigi. "Golden-haired, splendid. Each year the Sposo, Sir Blakeney, sends me a gift from the boy. It is good of them to remember."

"Oh!" The French doctor closed his book. "Then it can't be," he said to himself, "since the boy is alive. But"—he looked again at the entry—"from what you tell me a second child would be a practical impossibility," he said.

"Well, it is so," answered the Italian.

"And, in this case, also. Yet the boy is alive. Come, Luigi, out. I shall be in London next week at the great Conference, but I leave happily my patients to you, mon ami."

Esmé, once again Mrs Carteret, lay sobbing on the high narrow bed in her room at the Meurice. She would never be rich now; her heartache never stilled. Wild schemes went drifting through her brain. Could she do as Denise had done? No, for Denise was rich, and to cheat one must have money. Half-maddened, she buried her hot face in the pillow; then would spring up with clenched hands, railing against the world.

Her boy, her boy! who would have meant so much to her. Her baby, ill-used, neglected!

There is no sorrow so bitter as that of a sin which has failed to succeed; no remorse so biting as that which eats with decayed teeth, which whispers as it grows painfully, "I come from your own fault."

Esmé got up at last, powdered thickly and carelessly, put away her plain gown and got into a blue velvet, pinned on a huge hat, and went down to tea.

She could think no longer. A bunch of pale mauve violets tempted her. With her fair hair, her done-up skin, her brilliant gown, men turned and stared and drew their own conclusions.

Esmé wanted new gowns. Denise owed her money. She drove to her dressmaker's.

But Madame Lilie was cool, unenthusiastic. Madame Carteret's accounts were over-difficult to get in.

"If Madame would pay cash, but certainly. But otherwise money was scarce. English accounts so ver' difficult to get in. For cash there were one or two gowns."

With deft hands Madame showed a model of emerald velvet, bizarre, remarkable, but exquisite in its supple grace. Another of sapphire cloth. An evening gown of chiffon and satin, clinging, opal-hued.

The three could be supplied—they would fit Esmé easily—for one hundred and twenty pounds for cash, with jupons to match thrown in.

Esmé was going to the Holbrooks. She must wear her old clothes; and Dollie Gresham would be there, and Denise.

"You know that I would pay you," Esmé flashed out. "It is nonsense. I could send you half in a month."

Madame grew cold again. After all, the blue was almost sold to a customer, but as Madame had come all the way from Londres, bien! she had showed it.

It was in Esmé's mind to lose her temper, to call the woman insolent and suspicious. But the three models lying together, green and blue and shimmering opal, held her tongue.

She would come back to-morrow, buy the gowns; she had meant to leave next morning, but she would not.

It was dusk outside, and cold; she hurried on to the Ritz.

A stout man, barring her path, swept his hat off to her, murmuring some words.

"Monsieur!" Esmé said haughtily.

"But, Madame"—the man's French halted. "If Madame would come to tea with a humble admirer—"

"Monsieur!" she stormed, hurrying on across the open space in front of the huge hotel. The man followed her, apparently unabashed, into the lounge, his eyes fixed admiringly on her.

With a little gasp of relief Esmé saw a man she knew, Sir Thomas Adaire—a round-faced, jovial youth, with cunning blue beady eyes, and a distorted imagination.

"Don't make a fuss," she said, "but that dreadful person is following me."

The stranger sheered off rapidly, with a smile of understanding more insulting than his pursuit.

Sir Thomas, ordering tea, first called the unknown an impossible bounder, and then let his blue beads rest on Esmé with some surprise in them.

"Don't exactly wonder either," he said. "Dress very fine, ain't it? Hubby over with you?"

"No," Esmé answered, irritably.

"Oh!" A comprehensive pause. "Let me know when to sheer off then. I'm doing nothing. Just over to look round. Lots of things to look at, eh? over here. Same sort look like peaches in the apple-house over in London."

Sir Thomas drank his tea. Esmé knew that in his shrewdly lewd little mind he quite believed that she had come to Paris to meet someone—looked on it as merely natural. Sir Thomas knew one code of life, and love had never come to make him wish he had not believed in it thoroughly.

He talked on lightly; with him no wife was faithful, no man a keeper of his marriage vow. He told of little scandals pleasantly; they were nothing in his eyes.

"She was very nearly caught that time. Dicky Margrave rolled up quite unexpectedly and milady had the forbidden fruit in her boudoir. She told him to turn his back and take off his coat, and clean the windows. 'Horrible mess in here, Dicky,' she said. 'Man's just finishing the windows. Come to the library.' The forbidden one walked out boldly two minutes later."

"But the servants?" said Esmé.

"Oh, if they tell, they go; also, they won't get other places; they keep quiet all right. Betty Margrave told me that herself. She's got Dicky in order now; he's afraid of reprisals about Caromeo."

So from story to story, a male Vivien carelessly blackening reputation.

Esmé told him so, growing impatient.

"Bless you! who's got 'em nowadays? We only treasure visiting lists," he mocked.

After a time Esmé talked herself, found herself enjoying the ever-pleasant task of pulling our friends to pieces, added a new whisper or two for Sir Thomas to elaborate.

"Just left the new Penelope, haven't you?" he said. "Denise Blakeney—she's into the starch bag after several years in hot water. No one but Cyrrie now, and he—well, he was always a gorgon husband. Saw a parson gazing at Denise last month at her big garden-party. 'There is a model of English wifehood, of truth and purity,' he said to something in brown muslin, whom I fancy was his wife."

"And if he knew," flashed Esmé, indignantly, and stopped.

"Knew what?" Sir Thomas grew interested.

"A little secret." Esmé's face grew grave. "Pah! if we all knew each other's secrets. If you knew mine and I yours."

"Haven't got any," he said comfortably. "Secrets are the kind of things you've to keep a flat for and a motor which they drive some other fellow out in. A day's amusement is my sort. But—you—you're a bit of a Penelope yourself, Mrs Carteret."

"Anything else is so stupid," said Esmé, laughing.

Sir Thomas, falling into complete bewilderment, asked Esmé to dinner when he found she was really alone. To forget her misery she was hilariously gay, telling smart little stories, flashing out sharp speeches, amusing the little man immensely.

"Kind of woman you don't know what to make of," grumbled Sir Thomas. "Lets you kiss her ear in the taxi, and gives yours a verbal boxing when you suggest supper in a quiet room. Gets herself up to look like what she's not, and is frightfully offended when she's taken for it. Tires one's eyes, that class of cipher. We'll read plain print again demain, thank the Lord."

Folly would never be Esmé's refuge; she sat in her room, her sleeping draught ready, wondering what life would be like if, for mere amusement, she had been what Sir Thomas took her for. There was not even a pretension of affection, but merely: "We are well met. You are pretty, your skin is soft, your eyes are bright; let us see how much joy we can steal from Time's storehouse."

"There must be crowds of people who are like that or he wouldn't think it so natural," said Esmé. "I believe Dollie wouldn't care—or Denise, once—but I—I could never forget my miseries by becoming a beast."

Then, soothed by the drug, she slept soundly, to wake with a parched mouth and heavy head, and lie tossing feverishly because her tea was late.

There were the three dresses. Fretting for them—more because she wanted to fret than because she really wanted them—Esmé went to the telephone.

"Is that Madame? No? Well, give her a message. Tell her I'll send over a cheque for those dresses from London. To alter and keep them for me—Mrs Carteret."

It was a weary journey back. When thoughts would come crowding in bitter array. If there was never to be a child, then they would never be rich. Only a week before Bertie had told her plainly that they could not go on spending so much. Here again Esmé blamed someone else. If Denise would only pay her regularly, it was all Denise's fault. There was two hundred owing now, since June. The thousand pounds vanished so easily. Dresses, bridge, furs, so many things that Esmé wanted, could not do without. If Bertie knew that besides what he knew to be spent she was using this other money, too.

If Denise would only pay up her debts for her, let her start fair again! Esmé looked sullenly at the calm sea. If not she would threaten to take the boy—she would take him. He would forget it all in time. Then, with a shiver, she thought of the telling, of the scandals, of tongues wagging, of the proving and altering, and, she was not pitiless, of Denise Blakeney's complete undoing.

Denise was still in Scotland. Rashly, pressed by her desire for the dresses, Esmé made up her mind to write.

Bertie met his wife at Charing Cross. With her irritable mood making her observant, Esmé noticed that his light overcoat was shabby, that he lacked smartness.

"Oh! Bertie!" She kissed him, eagerly glad to see him, always hoping to find comfort in his love. Then the barrier which her secret made rose, drearily, between them. They had so little to talk about now, so little in common.

"That coat's shabby, Bert. You must get a new one," she said impatiently.

"Not just now," he answered; "it's all right."

"It's not right." Esmé felt that he was hitting at her extravagances. "You shall get one. I'll buy it for you, Bert."

"Millionaire," he mocked. "Have you got some secret fount of money, Es? You never have enough to buy your own things, child. And—the doctor, Es—Legrand?"

"Says I'm to drink milk and eat turnips and pray," she said bitterly, "and live in the country, and sleep on ozone, and so forth."

"And—if you would?" His voice grew eager. "Oh! Esmé, if you would—just you and I together again."

The tenderness in his voice was forced there, stilling thoughts which would not sleep; he assured himself that with a fresh start, without perpetual extravagance and excitement, he would feel the old passion for his wife wake in him. Fresh air and exercise would banish the memory of the companion whose presence he longed for so much now.

"Come to Cliff End, Butterfly. Try it as a cure, with me as chief physician."

London, huge and splendid, flitted by them as the taxi rushed to the flats; the streets called to Esmé; the restaurants were lighted up, glowing golden behind their portals. She thought of the whimper of the wind, the thunder of the surf against the rocks; the dreariness of the country.

"I couldn't," she said at last; "the man doesn't understand. Town's my life, Bertie; all my pals are here. No, I couldn't."

"It will have to be Town with a difference very soon," he said, sighing.

Economy again—money; he thought of nothing else. She was not back five minutes and he was preaching at her. He could look up what he'd paid for her clothes last year. It wasn't so much. "And I'm better dressed than rich women," stormed Esmé, hysterically. "You might be proud of me instead of grumbling—always grumbling."

The taxi stopped at the door of the tall buildings. There was no home in it to Bertie. The hall porter greeted them. The lift took them upwards to their flat, past other flats, and then into the pretty rooms.

Marie was ready waiting, supplying the petit soins which Bertie had forgotten.

"Pauvre Madame is tired." Marie had a cup of coffee with but just a soupçon of eau de vie. The bath was prepared. She hovered round Esmé, getting a soft wrapper, soothing jangled nerves. Marie was a treasure!

Esmé took up her letters. Bills, invitations, more bills, a scrawl from Dollie asking them to dinner. Esmé had forgotten her ill-humour.

"Bertie, we're dining out—telephone to Dollie. Yes, I said we'd go."

Dollie Gresham's was better than dinner in the restaurant, or brought up by a flat-faced German to their dining-room. Bertie distrusted the tinned soup, the besauced entrées and tasteless meat. He was glad to go out. Esmé had told him nothing; he was hurt and would not show it.

"Ring up the coupé people, Marie. Dollie may be going to a theatre, Bert."

"We must owe them a fortune," was on Bertie's lips, but he stopped. To even ask if a taxi would do might disturb peace.

Dollie wanted them for bridge. Her little dinners surpassed Esmé's now. They were a party of eight, Dollie's bitterly clever tongue keeping away all fears of dullness.

"Cousin May was here to-night, Esmé; she came from Paris to-day also. She saw you there—at the Ritz, having a dinner with blue-eyed Tommy. You heard some pretty tales before that evening was over, Esmé. Let's have them now."

"Am I to undermine the peace of this dinner-table?" Esmé's wit was fairly ready, and she watched with a smile as women flushed and men looked uncomfortable.

"Unsavoury little dustman," said Bertie, sharply.

Esmé had not told him of her dinner. His look at her made the table know it, and gave them something to talk of afterwards.

"Sly Esmé, setting up as such a model too. And Tommy of all men. She was a friend of Jimmie Helmsley's once, too; don't you remember he dropped her for the Chauntsey girl?" people whispered. The teeth of Society loves a bone of scandal to crunch.

After dinner Bertie cut in at Dollie's table, and as her partner found himself absent, playing badly, losing tricks carelessly.

"I'm really sorry," he apologized, as their opponents went across for sandwiches. "I'll wake up now."

"You're out of sorts," Dollie said kindly. "What is it?"

"Debts," he said wearily. "We're the old proverbial china crock, Mrs Gresham, trying to swim with the brass one. What does it cost a woman to dress, Mrs Gresham?"

"It costs Esmé about fifteen hundred a year," said Dollie, shrewdly. "Claire is ruinous now. Never an evening frock under sixty, and the etceteras at so much an ounce. Then Esmé's furs are all new. She's a bad little lady going to Claire, and Lilie in Paris."

"Fifteen hundred!" Bertie laughed. "No, about three; and it's far more than I can manage."

"Three—grandmothers!" observed Dollie, blandly. "You see Claire's little bill and tell me then. You're very extravagant children. Esmé paid those electric people fifty pounds before you left London, and taxis are just as good."

"Fifty pounds!" Bertie shuffled the cards silently. He had not given Esmé fifty pounds for the garage. He certainly did not pay Claire's bill. His payments had been to big drapers, and to a tailor.

A sudden sickening doubt was assailing him. Was Esmé getting money he did not know of? Was he one among the hundreds of fooled husbands? He flung the thought away, and turned to the game, and played carefully.

But on the way home the thought returned.

"Esmé, we must pay these people," he said, trying to speak carelessly. "Not let it get too high."

"Oh, I sent them a sop to Cerberus months ago—a big one."

"But—I never gave it to you."

"No." He saw her hand move impatiently. "No, it was bridge winnings, I suppose. Or when Poeticus won the Hunt Cup. I forget."

Suspicion is a seed which, sown, grows, and will not be hoed up. Bertie came into his wife's room as she lay asleep, and looked sadly at her pale face. There was a small room next door, lined with cupboards; he went to it, opened the doors, saw the shimmer of satins and silks, the softness of chiffon and lace, the gleam of rich embroidery—dress upon dress. He had loved to see her well dressed, and not dreamt of the great cost of some of these mere wisps of evening gowns. Sixty pounds! Bertie shut the doors, feeling mean, as if he had spied, but he was not satisfied.

Had Esmé some way of getting money? Instead of sleeping, he did accounts; got up frowning, to go to sleep at last in the grey bleakness of an autumn morning, to wake with the little parasite, suspicion, gnawing at his heart.

He went into his wife's room after his breakfast; she did not come down for hers now. Esmé was up, her golden hair loose, waiting to have some brightening stuff rubbed into it.

She was bending over her jewel-case, choosing a necklace and pendant to wear.

"This clasp is loose, Marie; the clasp of these sapphires"—Esmé held up a thin chain holding together little clusters of sapphires and diamond sparks. "It's—oh! you, Bertie!"

"That's new, isn't it, Esmé?" He took the chain from her.

"New—if a year old is new."

"And this"—he snapped open two or three cases, holding glittering toys. "I didn't give you any of these, did I?"

Esmé moved impatiently. "Paste," she said suddenly. "Parisian! I can't go about always wearing the same old things, so I am foolish, and get these."

"Oh, paste!" He was putting back a pendant when he looked at the setting. Surely paste had a backing, was not set clear.

"They're wonderfully done," he said gravely. The satin lining of the case bore a Bond Street jeweller's name.

"Oh, wonderfully." Esmé snapped the case to. "And I get the cases so as to deceive my friends' maids. Run away, Bertie, you worry me standing there."

He went slowly. Esmé was lying to him. The things were real. Her jewel-box was full of new toys and trifles; he began to realize that her dresses were magnificent.

Her letters lay in a litter on her bureau, some half-opened, all tossed about as if they had worried her. One long slip oozed from its envelope, with a huge total at its foot. It was a bill for new furs. Another thick envelope bore the word "Claire" on the back.

A man has a right to see his wife's bills. Bertie took out the letter.

Madame Claire begged immediately for a cheque on account. She really must have a few—Bertie turned white—a few hundreds. A smaller slip of paper was enclosed. Amount of account furnished, three hundred and ten pounds. Yellow evening gown, lace overdress, seventy pounds. Blue tea gown, forty pounds. The total was for five hundred pounds.

Bertie laid it down with a sick feeling of despair. He could not pay this. It was impossible. Five hundred pounds to a dressmaker. Dollie Gresham had been right in her estimate. He sat looking at the dull blue of the drawing-room carpet, sat thinking hopelessly.

Then Esmé, in dull blue-green, masses of black making a foil to her fair skin, came back. A faint perfume clung about her, nothing emphasized, but the memory of sachets or little pieces of perfumed skin sewn into her dress.

The necklace of small sapphires and diamonds glistened at her throat. She was humming gaily, ready to write to Denise.

"Esmé!" Bertie raised his white face.

"Bertie! Have the Germans taken London, or is Lloyd George made Regent? Or—you're not ill, Bertie?"

"We can't go on, Esmé," he said. "I saw your account on your bureau there. Esmé, I can't pay it, unless we sell everything—go away."

He saw her hand clench, but she did not look at him.

"How dared you pry?" she began, then checked herself. "Paul Pry!" she mocked. "Paul Pry! But I can pay it."

"You? How?" he asked, getting up.

"How? I've won a lot lately," she said, after a pause. "I got some tips. I can pay it, Bertie."

"You've got money to your account, then?" he said, for he knew that she was lying again.

"Not now."

"Bookmakers," said Bertie, "pay on Mondays. Who is your man?"

"Oh! don't bother, Bertie." Her hands shook as she began to write. "Denise did the bet for me. I'm writing to ask her to send it on now."

"Oh!" he said, more quietly still.

"I backed first one and then another," she said; "got it that way. So don't fret, Boy."

"But if you had not won," he said softly. "The account is not new, Esmé."

"I chanced it! I let the winnings go on to other gees." He could hear the anger rising in her voice. "I chanced it. Don't bother now, I'm writing."

"But I must bother, Esmé. We can't go on like this. We're getting poorer every day. If we had a child things would be different, but as it is Hugh Carteret will leave me Cliff End and what he allows me now—four hundred a year."

"And you'll be Lord De Vinci," she said.

"With a title and two mortgaged places, and every penny left to the girl. Esmé, if you can't pull in we must give up London."

"Not until London gives me up," she flashed out. "Leave me my own affairs, Bertie. If I make a bit it doesn't hurt you. You don't have to pay then."

"You're mad, Butterfly," he answered, "to dream of living by backing horses. Look here! Nothing's ever been the same since I went away that time. Esmé, we're young. Let's start again." He came nearer her.

If he had taken her in his arms she might have fought down the restless demon of anger and resentment which was tearing at her. But he did not touch her.

"Start in a sand castle by the sea," she mocked, "with limpets for friends and neighbours." And then suddenly her self-control gave way. She burst out hysterically and told him he wanted to make her miserable, to imprison her in the country; cried tears of sheer peevish temper; swore that all the world's luck was against her; that she had no pleasure, no real fun; that even a few rags paid for by herself were grudged to her.

After a little Bertie turned away, went out so quietly that she did not hear him go, and left Esmé raving in an empty room, until Marie with a tabloid came to soothe and comfort.

Bertie walked swiftly across London, up through the roar of Piccadilly, with its motor monsters, diving, stopping, rushing, with its endless flight of taxis, its horse vans out of place in the turmoil. It was cold, a thin rain falling; he walked on to narrower streets, and came to the grey, dull square where Estelle lived with her aunt. It was London at its dreariest; smoke-stained old houses, blinking out at a smoke-grimed, railed-in square. A few messengers delivering meat at area doors, a few tradesmen's carts standing about, now and then a taxi gliding through, spurning the thin slime of the quiet street. Decorous, old-fashioned carriages were drawn up at some of the doors, with large horses poking miserably at their bearing reins, and getting their mouths chucked as they did it by obese and self-satisfied coachmen. The self-centred life of a colony of quiet people was making its monotonous way from free lighting to lights out. People who lived next door and never knew each other, who revolved in their own little circles and called it living. Perhaps lived as happily as others, since to each their own life and drawing of breath.

"Was Miss Reynolds in? Yes?"

Estelle was dusting the china in the big, brown-hued drawing-room, an appalling museum of early Victorian atrocities, with efforts of the newer arts which followed the cumbrous solidity; pieces of black and gold, plush monkeys clinging to worked curtains, fret-work brackets and tables covered with velvet sandwiched in here and there.

Estelle dusted an offensive bronze clock with positive loathing. It was a gouty effigy of Time, clinging to his scythe because he must have fallen without it, and mournfully accepting the hour-glass set in his chest, which held a loudly-ticking clock of flighty opinions and habits; evidently, judging by his soured expression, a cross to the holder. Two large vases containing dyed pampas grass guarded each end of the mantelpiece; two others held everlastings.

Estelle had once said that the room inspired her with a deep longing to throw stones there, so as to break some of the monotony.

Mrs Martin, her aunt, padded softly in each morning, moving pieces of furniture back to their exact places if they had been stirred by visitors, patting the muslin antimacassars, pausing every time at the doorway to remark, "Is it not a charming room?" and then padding out again—she wore velvet slippers—to sit in the room at the back and stitch for the poor. Mrs Martin had reduced dullness, skilfully touched up with worthiness, to a fine art.

She gave Estelle complete liberty, because, behind her conventional stupidity, she herself had a mind which imagined no harm, a child's mind, crystal clear of evil thoughts. She had married, been widowed, lived blamelessly. The swirl of London was part of the newspaper world, "which everyone knows, my dear, the compositors make up as they go on," she told Estelle, "except of course the divorce cases, and no doubt half of those are not true."

The most blameless daily which could be procured was taken together with the Athenæum and the Sunday Chronicle.

"Oh, I shall throw them some day," said Estelle aloud to the vases.

"Who is that, Magennis?" said Mrs Martin to the butler. "Captain Carteret! I trust he has come to arrange an outing for Miss Reynolds."

"He does that often, 'e does," said Magennis, as he went back to his pantry. Magennis had not a mind of crystal purity. When he was younger he had been pantry-boy in a large country house.

"Bertie! What is it?" Estelle dropped one of the smaller vases. It crashed on to the silver brightness of the polished fender, making a litter of bright-flowered glass and crackling everlastings.

"It's broken," said Estelle.

"And so am I." Bertie crossed the room and took her hands. "And you cannot ever mend the vase, Estelle, but I wonder if you can mend me."

Estelle turned very white.

"I'm tired," he said drearily. "I feel as if the fates had drubbed me mentally, until my sore mind aches. We'll get another vase, Estelle"—for she was picking up the pieces with shaking fingers. "And I tell you, I have come to you to be mended," he went on, almost pitifully.

"But I—what can I do?" she whispered.

The room faded; she saw the open sea shimmering blue and green and opal; she felt again the love she had hoped she had fought down and put away.

"You can stop pretending," he said. "You can give me a little comfort, Estelle, a little love. I have lost faith in everything except you. And—I love you, Estelle," he added gravely.

The rush of mingled joy and sorrow made the girl gasp.

"But Esmé?" she whispered.

"Esmé was a will-o'-the-wisp—a false light on a marsh. You are the solid world. Estelle, I don't know where I am. Esmé has made a fool of me—and I can never care for her again. Will you help me—or see me go to the dogs alone?"

The cunning of man, turning the mother-love in woman, which he knows is stronger than passion, to his own ends. Man triumphant, merry, full of strength and hope, she may resist; but man broken, pitiful, needing her, is irresistible.

Bertie had sat down on the brown sofa; he was looking at her with dazed eyes.

"I'll help you, Bertie. I'll be all I can ... as your friend ... remember, only as your friend."

"Child, do you take me for a brute?" he said, as he drew her down beside him.

Poor Friendship, lending his cloak once more, standing mournfully as Love flings it over his pink shoulders; knowing so well how the god liked to hide and mock beneath the solid folds.

"Oh! I am so tired, Estelle," said Bertie.

Friends only—the cloak held firmly. But friends' lips do not meet with a thrill of joy; friends do not know the unrestful happiness which came to these two as they sat hand-in-hand—their two years' sham fight over.

CHAPTER XIII

"OH, bother!" said Denise Blakeney. "Bother!"

"What is it, Den?"

Sir Cyril sat on his wife's bed; he was up early, out about the place, arranging the day, looking at his horses, his herd of shorthorns, speaking to the keepers. His men feared Sir Cyril, and served him well.

Denise pushed a letter away.

She was pretty and fresh in her lace cap, her rose-pink wrapper.

"Oh, nothing!" she answered. "It's time to get up, isn't it?"

"To-morrow," he said, "it will be time an hour earlier."

"Shooting mornings are so long," yawned Denise.

"But what, or who, worried you, Den? Why did you exclaim?"

An insistent man, he held out his hand for the letter.

"Oh! nothing, Cyrrie. No, you mustn't see it. It's only from Esmé, grumbling. I couldn't show it to you. There are things about herself—her health." Denise talked very fast, growing a little breathless. "And she wants a little loan—and I'm short. She was so good to me that time abroad, you know—she—"

"She's rankly extravagant," said Cyril, equably. The silken quilt had slipped on one side; he saw the figures £200 written plainly. Sir Cyril sat thinking, frowning as he thought. He gave Denise a huge allowance to do as she chose with; but twice in the last year she had asked him for more.

"She's rankly extravagant," he went on, "and she must not worry you, my dear. I'll send her five-and-twenty."

"No, Cyril, not you—it would be a breach of confidence."

"There can be no breaches of confidence between a wife and her husband." His eyes hardened, his big jaw stuck out. "No secrets, Den. I tell you that, and I mean it. If she has asked you before I should have known. I expect to know again."

Stooping, he kissed her lightly, but she knew the meaning in his voice, knew and dreaded him. The folly of her petty sinning had been crossed out, but since then she was his, and he would stand no deceiving.

"You fool! to write to me," almost whimpered Denise.

Esmé had written excitedly. She had raved on at Bertie, stormed, cried, grown calm, and then angry. Money must be found now—must! Two hundred was not enough. Denise must send three, advance the money for January; she must give at least two hundred to the rapacious Claire. So her letter was a flurried one, lacking caution. "I must, Denise," she wrote—"I must have money. I could have it of my own if I—if I—upset everything. You know what I mean. So don't refuse me, old girl, for old sake's sake. Send me something to sell if you can't manage coin. I'm really in a corner. Bertie's grumbling, Claire pressing. You know what Hugh has said—that if I had a child he'd leave us money, and so—" then a long blank.

"She is mad," whispered Denise, now white to the lips, shaking from sick fear. "If she told, if it came out. I'd deny it all! She dare not; but—if she did!" She sat up, shivering, and Sir Cyril, looking in, saw her.

"That Carteret girl is worrying Den," he said to himself.

"And I haven't got it," muttered Denise. "I don't think so, and I daren't send off jewels, for that tiresome Studley counts them all, and nothing wants mending."

She must slip into the town, get money and send it off. Cyrrie had been looking over her accounts lately; she had had to draw out money in small sums, and send them on.

Denise was frightened. She was going down when she saw the tell-tale letter lying on her bed. She ran back, tore it up, burnt it in her fire; came to breakfast shaken and looking ill.

Cyril was making his own tea; Denise took coffee; the boys, in their high chairs, were solemnly eating bread and milk, eating fast that they might reach the stage of scrambled eggs, and later, honey or jam.

"Oh, Cyril, how you mess!" Cyril had dropped his spoon. "You shan't have any jam now, or egg—only bread and butter."

"You're hard on him, Den. Any fellow can drop a spoon."

"He can also learn to hold it. Now don't cry, Cyril."

"I never does," said Cyril, quietly. "Never, mumsie."

"No—you sulk." Denise was venting her irritation on the boy.

Big Cyril was thinking. He thought quietly, and, equally quietly, acted. Denise must not be weak enough to go on paying for one winter's kindness.

"Say sorry and mumsie will give us jam," said Sir Cyril.

"Didn't drop it a pupus, dads." The clear baby eyes met Sir Cyril's, filled with the mystical reasoning of childhood. "Not a pupus—the dog joggled me, dad."

Sir Cyril grinned gently; Denise muttered something, and he helped the boys to egg.

Cyril, forgetting the wisdom of silence, wished to know why hens wouldn't lay eggs scrambled, an' save cook's trouble, and Cecil suggested telling the fowl-woman.

"I am going to Insminton, Cyril. I have to get some things."

"Yes. I'll come in with you. No one will be here before one."

Denise flushed; then she must go in the afternoon, and the bank would be shut.

She sat fidgeting, afraid to the bottom of her shallow soul of the big-jawed man she had married.

She had seen him angry—knew the depths of his cold anger, and his ideas of justice. The hard Blakeney pictured faces frowned down upon her from the dining-room walls; a race of human steamrollers, driven by the power of determination; diving aside respectfully for what they realized to be the rightful traffic of the road of life, but coming on mercilessly to grind what needed grinding.

"Coming, Den?" Sir Cyril called from the door.

Denise came reluctantly; she must pretend to have some errands, for she knew she would get no opportunity now of going to the bank. Her husband would do his own work quickly, then drive her about, waiting for her.

The big drapers scored by an order for silk and for table linen.

Mr Holmes, the grocer, rubbing his fat chin, decided that sardines must be about to be used as fish by the great, seeing that he had supplied a dozen boxes the day before and was asked for another dozen now.

"Finished, Den?"

"Yes. I think I've forgotten something, though." Denise was driven home, answering questions, but not speaking, frightened, and too visibly ill at ease.

"H'm!" said Sir Cyril to himself.

He went to his study to write, stayed there until the luncheon gong rang, came out to find the first arrivals in the morning-room, and to see Denise, her colour high, hurrying in.

"I'm so sorry I'm late. I had to run over to the Vicarage to give the vicaress some books for her club. I forgot them this morning."

Denise had been to the bank, extracted two hundred pounds in notes from a beaming manager. She came in a little nervously, looking aside at Sir Cyril. The big man would have made a good detective. His hard eyes narrowed a little, his big chin shot out. Denise was not in the least likely to have remembered the books for the vicar's wife without some other motive. Without the faintest suspicion of Denise in his mind, he summed it all up.

"That Carteret woman's worried the girl; she went to get her the money." After all, the Carteret woman had been once full of devotion; Denise had heaps of money; but it must not go too far. Cyril Blakeney was a man who walked straight to his goal. He meant to ask Denise how much she had sent, to warn her against being bled.

He ate his plainly-cooked luncheon, almost in silence. A thorough Englishman, eating large helpings of roast beef and vegetables, topped up by a steamed pudding and cheese. A mouthful of something highly flavoured had no attractions for Cyril Blakeney.

Denise, picking at a cutlet, watched him, grew brighter as she began to feel certain that she had managed everything so well. She would have her own money soon, send on the advance to Esmé.

Denise pulled out the one foot she had dabbled into the Slough of Despond. She walked gaily again in the sunshine on firm ground.

And yet the cue was on the call-boy's lips; the drama was being played out, and a net she never dreamed of closing about her.

By tea-time the party had nearly assembled; they took it in the big drawing-room, chilled people coming gladly near the blazing fire, drinking hot tea, eating tea-cakes and hot biscuits as if dinner were twenty-four hours away.

Lucy Richmond, a big blonde, married to one of the best shots, came to sit by Denise. She was a dull, stupid woman, deeply impressed by herself. Hostesses were profoundly bored by Mrs Richmond, but she delighted in house-parties and was comfortably certain that Gus, her lean little husband, was only asked for her sake.

"So nice to be here again, dear Lady Blakeney. I do love your big house. And now tell me all about the babies, and how they are."

Denise nibbled a sandwich, and looked for rescue. She was lamentably ignorant as to flannel undervests and patent foods.

"The little one is in knickers now, I expect, isn't he? I hope he wears...."

Denise's appealing eyes raked Sir Thomas from his chair; they called openly for help.

"That he wears really fine wool," said Mrs Richmond, heavily. "No, Sir Thomas, run away; you're not interested in children's clothes."

"In knickerbockers," giggled Denise, faintly.

"Not going to come out with the guns in 'em really, are you?" said Sir Thomas, blandly, ignoring everything except the last words. "Sportin' of you, Mrs Rich—very. Has Raleigh taught you shootin' then?"

Mrs Richmond sniffed angrily.

"Get me some tea," said Denise, "and oh, here's Cyril."

The big man strolled across to his wife, handing her a telegram from a delayed guest.

"Nuisance," he said; "good shot, too."

"Oh! Lady Blakeney, I must show you my new pendant." Lucy Richmond forgot knickerbockers, and turned to a fresh subject. "One of those dear, old-fashioned, heavy things. Raleigh sent me to buy myself a birthday present, and it had just come in to Benhusan's."

Unfastening a clasp, she held the jewel out. Seeing it, Denise felt her colour ebb until she feared her cheeks must be deathly white. It was the pendant she had given to Esmé. Why had the woman chosen this moment?

"It's just like yours, Den"—Sir Cyril took the jewel in his big fingers—"exactly the same."

"I love these dear old-fashioned solid things," babbled Lucy Richmond. "As it was heavy, it wasn't so dear. Benhusan told me he had just bought it, but that they had made it originally themselves."

"Oh!" Sir Cyril sat down. "Yes. Bought it when, did you say?"

A bore is a person stocked with date and detail. Lucy Richmond loved a listener. How interesting she was, she felt, as she re-clasped the ugly pendant. Oh, on such a day—at such an hour.

Close by Denise sat listening, afraid to speak, hoping she was not showing her fear, her heart fluttering.

"Yes. Curiously, my wife has a duplicate of this, one an old aunt gave to her. Wear yours to-night, Denise."

"I hate it, Cyrrie," she faltered.

"Yet wear it," he said very quietly, and strolled away. Sir Cyril never seemed to hurry.

Denise, for the best reasons, could not wear the pendant. Wild thoughts shot through her head. Should she go to Mrs Richmond, borrow the diamonds, make up a story? No, for the gossiping fool would repeat it all over London.

It was late when Denise came to her room; she sent her maid away, sat by the fire. It was so comfortable there; she was surrounded by rich things; her dressing-table gleamed with gold and ivory; her bed was carved white wood, a nest of silken eider-down.

And if Cyril knew.

He came in then, quietly, walked to the fire and stood looking down at her.

Some silences are harder to bear than words. Denise shivered nervously.

"You did not wear the pendant to-night, Denise."

"No," she said miserably.

"Because you could not. Denise, why lie to me?"

"I—I," she crouched down in her big chair, sick, frightened, wondering what lie might serve her best.

"I know Benhusan," he said. "I rang him up at his own house. Den—Esmé Carteret took that pendant, and—you lied to screen her."

The woman cowering in the chair turned as red as she had been pale, felt as some sinking swimmer who suddenly feels ground beneath his feet.

"I saw her standing at your safe, opening and shutting cases. She thought you might never miss this thing, as she knew you hated it. Denise, I don't blame you; but one cannot know a thief. It was that, was it not?"

Stronger people have taken their rescue at the cost of a friend's reputation. Denise was not strong; she was shallow-natured and afraid and shaken.

"Oh, Cyril," she said, beginning to cry. "Oh! don't tell a soul. Oh, promise—promise! She wanted money so badly."

"Money to spend upon herself, upon frocks and furs and entertainment. Den, she must not come to the house again. And this exonerates you from sending her gifts of money."

Sick fear jumped to life again. If there was any difficulty with Esmé's allowance the whole story might come out; she might still be ruined, disgraced.

But reflection brought comfort; there would be heaps of ways of managing the money.

Denise put her arms round Cyril's neck and pleaded for silence for her friend; let the stigma of thief fall on another woman, and wondered why she had found so easy a way out.

"I don't blame you, Den—don't cry." He held his wife closely. "But don't lie to me, girl! Don't! even to save other people. I must have truth. Must—and—will. The past's past; the future's mine, Denise, remember that."

He held her away a little, so that he could see her face. "You took some money out to send this wretched woman to-day. Don't send it now. How much was it?"

"It was not all for her, Cyril; she wanted—fifty," stammered Denise. "I got a lot—I was thinking of buying those ponies and the little trap for the boys as a surprise. You know, Edwardes' pair."

It was a good lie this time; he had no suspicion.

"Well, put your money back," he said kindly. "I'll get that. I'll put it in for you to-morrow ... send it for you."

Denise Blakeney did not sleep that night; and next day, driving into the town, she lost a valuable ring; it was loose, must have slipped off in her glove.

Esmé, opening the parcel, read a letter which surprised her.

"You were mad to write, Esmé, mad! All kinds of things have happened, and I cannot tell you. Take these stones out to sell them. I've said I lost the ring. And don't go to Benhusan's."

Sir Cyril, before he promised silence to his wife, had talked too openly to Amos Benhusan; said more than he had perhaps intended to.

Mr Benhusan had not promised silence; he talked a little, discreetly, but he talked.

Esmé bought her Paris frocks; paid something to Claire. Denise had sent her something valuable; but when the Blakeneys came to London, and she called, the "Not at home" was unmistakable.

"When would her ladyship be in?"

"Could not say, madam."

The door respectfully pushed to. Sir Cyril, meeting her, passed her with a cold bow.

Esmé rang up furiously. What was it? She must know.

"Not here. I can't talk here." Denise's voice was hurried and strained. "Meet me at the club to-morrow—at eleven."

Esmé kept her appointment punctually.

"Down here, Esmé—down in this lounge." Denise hurried to a dim corner, poured out a badly-jointed tale.

It was the letter. Cyril had caught sight of some of it, been furious; Esmé must keep away. It was the only plan. "And never come near the boy, never," wailed Denise, "never. After all, you never wanted him. You mustn't come to the Square. Cyril would suspect."

A passion of anger rent Esmé. Not to see the little son she had sold. Not to spend the half-hours which sent her away yearning and wistful. Not to bring sweets to the unloved child; to try to be his friend.

"Then, if you're not good to him," she stormed out, "by Heaven, Denise! I'll have him back. And for money, I must have my payment, but the boy comes first. Be good to him."

A sneer from Lady Blakeney. It was a little late to prate of mother-love, to assume virtue. Esmé had hated the idea of the baby coming. It was rubbish to suppose that anyone so hard-hearted could want to bother now. "I wouldn't have sold my child," sneered Denise. "No real woman would. Let cant alone, Es."

A pretty quarrel between two well-bred women who, with primitive instinct itching their fingernails, flashed out sharp truth and sharper innuendo.

A couple of women passing in saw the two.

"Hullo! I think that Esmé and Denise are disagreeing." Lady Mary Ploddy peered down the corridor. "They're flaming at each other. Look, Sukey."

Lady Sukey, her sister, looked; she even listened. "Quite interestin'," she drawled languidly. "Quite!"

When Esmé, flushed and furious, had gone out of the club, she flung back a last threat which left Denise raw with fear and anger, so irritated that her words were not quite under her control. She forgot caution, only wanted to hurt.

"Denise, you've been fighting with your Esmé," said Mary Ploddy.

"I was telling her I could not go on being friends and she resented it," said Denise, unsteadily.

"Couldn't? Why?" It was ill-fortune for Esmé that Denise should meet two women who loved a scandal dearly.

"Oh, never mind why. Cyril has forbidden me to. It's something I could not tell; nothing to do with morals."

"Money then?" Lady Mary's eyes were glowing with curiosity. "Only money and morals nowadays in the sin catalogue."

"Oh, never mind—she's impossible," snapped Denise, and, flustered, shaken, went out.

"It's something bad. Scratch the Carteret woman's name off the list of your Bridge Tournament, Sukey. I'll drop a hint to the Rollestones, too, for their dinner and dance."

So a whisper grew. Esmé, going to a big reception that night, caught one or two frigid bows from women who had smiled the day before.

The rooms were crowded, full of notabilities. The reception was in honour of a French diplomatist and his wife; the tripping tongue was as much used in the rooms as English.

"There is one lady whom I wish to see." Dr Legrand looked at the brilliant crowd. "Milady Blakeney."

"So, Monsieur. She is close to us—passing downstairs. There—in grey-blue—with the diamond stars."

"But, non, that is a dark lady." The doctor stared, puzzled.

"My nephew attended milady in Italy; but she is fair."

"No, Monsieur; she was always dark. He's muddled her with Esmé Carteret, who was with her. She is brilliantly fair. She might—yes—there she is, just going out."

Legrand turned, caught a fleeting glimpse of Esmé, started.

"Meeses Carteret," he half whispered. "But surely, it is so like the Mrs Smith of London. I seem to know this Mrs Carteret," he said aloud.

"She is a pretty woman. Oh!"

For Legrand had slipped away, struggled to the far doorway to get to Esmé, caught a glimpse of a fair head on the stairs, but got no nearer.

But that night he drew the strands of fate closer, for he wrote to Luigi:

"I have seen your Lady Blakeney, and she is brown-haired, ordinarily pretty, no fair-haired goddess. If you will join me here for a day—get Cartier to act for me. Thy Nonno."

Luigi arranged to come to London in ten days' time.

As fog spreads, cold and bitter, so a whisper crossed London.

Esmé, restlessly pleased by new dresses, by money to gamble with, went to the Holbrooks. Came, without thought of the scandal which was biting at her name, down to dinner.

The new dinner-gown clung to her long, thin limbs; she was haggardly, dazzlingly handsome.

Lady Mary Ploddy was at the fire.

"How cold it is!" Esmé had played bridge for years with the Ploddy women.

Lady Mary went on talking to Vita St Just as if she had heard nothing.

"How goes bridge, Lady Mary?" Esmé said, carelessly. "Been winning lately? We can play in the mornings here."

Mary Ploddy's powdered profile was slowly turned.

"Oh, you, Mrs Carteret," she said icily. "I am rather off bridge. Vita, shall we sit down?"

The whisper to yet another friend:

"Oh, something. Her old friend, Denise Blakeney, has had to cut her. Sir Cyril insisted. I heard that it was something about a pendant. Amos Benhusan told one or two people—you know, the big jeweller."

The chill deepened. Esmé was left alone at the fire, realizing suddenly that the women had drifted away from her. She looked at them curiously, turned to talk to a couple of men who came in, and forgot it. Something had put out the old Ploddy women, she decided carelessly.

But that evening, next day, Esmé began to realize people were avoiding her. She saw glances as she came into a room; she noticed the sudden hush which told her she was being discussed.

What was it? What could it be? The Holbrooks' party gave her no pleasure. For a time she tried to think it was jealousy, envy of her gowns, but Esmé was not small-minded; the thought had to be put away.

She sat up for Bertie one night, called him in from the small room off hers, where he slept.

"Bertie! these women are avoiding me," she flung out. "What is it? I've done nothing. They keep away from me—are almost rude; there's something, Bertie."

"Lord!" He sat down, staring at his wife. She looked haggard, worn; older than her years. He began to think. People had been curiously kind to him since he had come. He had been almost fêted by the men; they had "dear old chapped" him, asked him to play bridge and billiards, praised his shooting, offered to lend him horses, with a whispering undernote of pity in it all.

"Lord! It—must be nonsense, Butterfly," he said kindly, with something telling him that it was not. They had got wind, he thought, of Esmé's extravagance, and then he shook his head. What were debts to women who thought it smart to evade them, who paid exorbitant bills because they had been running too long to check them, who all wanted a little more than they had got?

"It must be nonsense," he said gruffly. "Scandal wouldn't offend them, even if you'd ever gone in for it. Want of money is nothing. Perhaps you've won a bit too much off 'em at bridge, or attracted someone's private man-property."

"I haven't," she said irritably. "Well, good-night."

Luke Holbrook, big and good-natured, paddled across his palm-court next day to the stiff room where he knew he would find his wife writing letters.

"Seem to have made another mess of it, my love," he said mildly. "Went to Sukey Ploddy now about what you told me, and she swears it's true. Telephoned to Benhusan. He wouldn't commit himself. Very awkward, my love, having the woman here."

"Too awful," said Mrs Holbrook. "To have stolen a friend's diamonds! That's it, isn't it? Gracious!" said Mrs Holbrook, weakly. "And Daisy Ardeane coming to-day."

"Bad as the dancer, my love." Luke Holbrook stroked his fat chin. "Bad as the dancer. See the Morning Post, my love?"

He picked it up.

"'A marriage has been arranged and will take place immediately between the Marquis of Boredom and Miss Maisie Moover, of Magnificent fame.'"

"The Duchess, my love, is having hysterics at the Hyde Park Hotel. Ploddy informs me that his cousin Trentwell is attending. She cut me dead last week in the Park, my love; and all because we wished to amuse a Cabinet minister."

"That affair," said his wife, "may alter the Boredoms' missing chins. But this is important. I can't have Esmé Carteret here."

Mr Holbrook remarked that actions for libel were unpleasant, and that Carteret was an excellent fellow; then he sighed.

"The woman has been living at a ridiculous pace," snorted Mrs Holbrook. "French frocks, furs, out everywhere and in debt."

"I'm afraid I'm horribly sorry for her; she looks wretched." The big man got up. "Debt's the devil, Maria."

"The reminders generally go to a hot place," said his wife, absently. "Think it over, Luke. Help me."

"I must, my love," said Luke, meekly.

And then chance cut the difficulty in two. Esmé, picking up the Morning Post, saw another paragraph.

"Sir Cyril Blakeney's son and heir was to-day run over by a taxi-cab. Lady Blakeney was with her two children, returning to her house, when the eldest boy stepped off the footpath and was caught by the wheel of a passing cab. Faint hopes are entertained of his recovery."

The paper slipped from Esmé's hands; she grew numb and cold.

"She pushed him," she whispered to herself. "She was angry and pushed him."

Her boy! Her baby! She knew now what she had sold and lost. Panting out his tiny life, dying!

Esmé got up slowly, came numb and white to her hostess.

She had had bad news; she lied dully, carelessly; a cousin was ill; she must leave at once. But if they liked to keep Bertie she was sure he would stay.

"I must be near him; I must be near him," rang the tortured longing of her heart. If he died she must see him buried; stand by his grave.

Something in the stricken face touched Mrs Holbrook. A motor could come round at once; catch the eleven-o'clock train; she was sorry.

"Thank you. My maid can follow. Thank you and good-bye."

"She went herself, my love," said Luke, contentedly.

Oh! crawling slowness of the big car; of the flying express train; biting fear of what might be as she reached London.

Their flat was cold, dusty; Esmé did not notice it; she unhooked the telephone.

"Who is that—Mrs Stanson?" A pause. "How is the child?"

Swaying, Esmé listened.

"Better—almost out of danger. It was exaggerated; his arm is crushed, but there are no internal injuries we hope. Who am I to say asked?"

The nurse had not recognized the hoarse voice.

"The ... Duchess of Boredom. Thank you ... thank you!"

A great wave of relief swept over Esmé. Her boy would not die. Then, later, fresh waves of depression. He was not out of danger. Children went out in a minute. The hours dragged and she was afraid to ask again. Then, still sitting there, hunched in a cold room, she rang up.

Denise's voice answered. "Who? Oh, it's you, Esmé. I'll shut the door. Now don't get hysterical, don't! The boy's doing well. He was naughty; it was his fault."

"You pushed him," stormed Esmé.

"Who told you?" Denise stopped, her voice grew ill-humoured. "No, you must not come here. I'll let you know. Oh, I promise I will. Don't be absurd."

Esmé sat on, taking no count of passing hours.

"But, oh, my poor Madame," wailed Marie, as she came in, "perished and alone."

Marie, of course, had made up her mind to an intrigue. Madame had not gone for nothing. Marie was disappointed. But she lighted the fire, sympathized, sent for hot tea and toast, flitted about with a world of surmise hidden behind her black eyes.

What was it? What trouble was Madame in? Knowledge was useful to clever people.

The telephone bell whirred; before Esmé could come Marie had snatched up the receiver.

"Is that you, Esmé? Quick! I've no time. The boy is doing well. What? Not Mrs Carteret? Oh, call her—at once."

No necessity to call the woman who came flying in, her eyes wild with anxiety. Esmé listened for a moment, then came back to her tea slowly.

It was Milady Blakeney's voice; Marie knew it.

"There is something then amiss with the little Master Blakeney, Madame?" the maid said softly.

"He is hurt, ill. His mother hates him," Esmé burst out, then checked herself.

"It is sad that Madame who loves so much a bébé should not have a little son," said Marie. "I thought ... when I left Madame...."

Esmé felt the flood of scarlet rushing to her tell-tale cheeks. With a quick movement she dropped her cup and cried out.

"When I left Madame," murmured Marie to herself, "and Madame is now so attached to the little boy Blakeney. I wonder, oh, I wonder!" muttered the Frenchwoman.

Little Cyril mended rapidly. His hand and arm were crushed, might never be used freely again; but there were no fatal injuries.

Deep in her heart, after the first remorse for the angry push which she had given the child, Denise had hoped that he might die. Once dead there would be no more danger of detection. Esmé would give up worrying her.

There was a dance next night given by a newcomer to London, an Italian Marchese.

Denise went to it, for Cyril was out of danger.

Three times Esmé had rung up to know if she might see the child, and Denise had answered: "No, no! Cyril was suspicious. Esmé must not come."

The Marchese had taken a big house in Eaton Place, had spared no expense on her entertainment.

Esmé, with her cheeks too pink, her eyes bright and hard, felt anew the frost which was creeping about her. Friends bowed coldly; she saw nods, shrugged shoulders.

She met Jimmie Gore Helmsley near the ball-room door. He was watching for a new love, a pretty little woman of twenty, married to a dull man who merely adored her and therefore took no pains to show it. The girl turned from gold to tinsel, because tinsel glittered and was more pleasing to the eye.

"Oh, Jimmie, you!" Esmé was glad to see him. "Any news?"

"Heaps!" he said coolly. "Sorry I can't stay to tell it you, fair lady. It's curious news."

Jimmie was paying off a score. He was openly unfriendly. Esmé stood partnerless, hurt by the snub for a time, until she flashed smiles on boys who bored her, simply that she might not be alone.

She saw Denise splendidly dressed, glittering with jewels; saw, too, that Denise backed and tried to slip away to avoid a meeting.

"How is he?" Esmé darted through the crowd. Sir Cyril stood near his wife, his big face set coldly.

"The boy? Oh! much better, thank you. So nice of you to take an interest in him." Denise's voice shook from nervousness.

"May I not come to see him?"

Sir Cyril interrupted quietly. "Impossible," he said, "impossible, Mrs Carteret. The boy is to be kept quiet. Come, Denise."

It was an open snub, given before people who looked on full of malicious curiosity.

Esmé stood, white under her rouge; there was something, and she did not know what it was.

"Come, let us go to supper." She turned, laughing, to her partner. "I'm thirsty."

The lighted room, masses of flowers, gay dresses and bright jewels, swam before her eyes. Then at the door she saw Luigi, and saw him wave and smile to her.

The secret was undone. This man knew. Fate had brought him to London.

Mechanically she walked on.

"Ah, milady!"—his brown hand gripped hers. "Well met. And—you do not look well."

"Mr Herbert, I've dropped a brooch, just over there; try to find it for me." Esmé sent the boy away, stood staring at the Italian.

"I have not ten minutes," he said. "I have to go, but my uncle would have me come here to see the English monde. And so—I see the child is hurted, but is nearly well again. I came yesterday," he said. "I leave to-morrow, recalled to Italy, or I would have gone to see him and you."

He knew no one there. He was alone and he was leaving London. Yet at any moment he might meet Denise with her husband.

"I am so glad to see you," Esmé faltered. "See, come to supper, and I will try to find Esmé; she is here too."

She hurried him downstairs to the supper-room; saw Denise, and leaving Luigi ran across to her.

Denise was with Lord Ralph Karton.

"Denise!" Esmé bent down to her. "Get away. Luigi is here. He takes me for you. He is at supper with me. Get away, I say; but I must see the boy to-morrow, if I keep silence again—I must," she said.

Denise Blakeney slipped to the door, stood there panting, hiding; she was not well, she told Lord Ralph; sent him for her husband.

"Esmé—I dare not," she whispered back; "but here—you are hard up—take this for gratitude."

She slipped a great bar of diamonds from her bodice, held it out.

"It cost a thousand," she said. "But you've saved me."

"I'll take it if I see the boy," said Esmé, sullenly.

"Not until Cyril's out of London. Telephone to me. I dare not."

Esmé's fingers closed on the glittering toy she held. It was magnificent; meant ease, peace—for months.

"So again I sell him," she said bitterly. "Go, Denise, quickly, while there is time."

She was pressed against Denise by the crowd, struggled away just as Sir Cyril came down the stairs to his wife.

Esmé slipped the diamond bar inside her dress, fastening the clasp to some lace. She went back to the Italian doctor, sat talking to him, saw him leave, and at the last was almost discovered.

For Luigi, bowing low over his country-woman and hostess, had told joyously of his meeting with Milady Blakeney.

"I will tell the uncle who said she was not fair that he is blind," he laughed.

The Marchese smiled, puzzled. "Fair to us, perhaps," she said. "She has gone home, poor lady."

"But no," said Luigi, puzzled.

Then the crowd separated the two Italians. Luigi went back to his hotel, and on next day to Italy.

A line no broader than that of a spider's weaving had saved Denise from exposure.

She drove home so frightened that she looked really ill; went to her room, clinging to Cyril's arm. The husband she had once treated so lightly seemed now a bulwark between her and all misfortune. To lose him—lose her home, her position—

Denise was pale, exhausted, as she slipped into her big chair, crouched there shivering.

Sutton, stiffly sympathetic, unloosed the clinging satin gown, brought a warm, rose-pink wrapper. Cyril ran for brandy.

"But, milady, the bar of diamonds. It is gone."

Cyril Blakeney paused at the door; he had heard.

"I told you that the clasp was bad, Sutton; I was afraid."

"I do not remember your ladyship having mentioned it," said Sutton, acidly.

"Your big bar, Den? The one I gave you last Christmas?"

"Yes." Denise sipped the fiery spirit. "Telephone, Cyril; send a man round. The fastening was bad; search the car."

"I do not think that we shall find it." Sir Cyril's face was very stern. He remembered seeing Esmé pressed close to his wife. In his heart he had no doubt the woman had stolen again.

Esmé had been Denise's friend in time of trial. He could not give her into the hands of the police. He said nothing to his wife, but went down slowly, heavily, to write a note and send it round.

And as fogs rise, so the whisper grew; Sir Cyril shrugged his shoulders when he spoke of the loss; he openly turned away from Esmé Carteret in the Park.

"Someone, I fancy, took it from my wife when she felt faint; at a huge reception like that there are curious people. Lord Harrington noticed it as she came to supper."

Sharp eyes had seen Esmé press close to Lady Blakeney, whisper to her; someone had noticed that she slipped something inside her dress.

London must draw its skirts aside from this offender and suspect.

CHAPTER XIV

Spring again, dancing backwards from summer's hot grasp. Light winds whispering wantonly as they caressed the waking earth. Soft sunlight, and everywhere the scent of narcissi, the blaze of golden daffodils.

The brown drawing-room had known no change during the passing months. It was as stiffly hideous as ever. The Church Times and Sunday Herald lay on the same table; the winter fires had been ordered away, and a vase of daffodils glowed yellow in the grate.

"It would be good in Devonshire to-day." Bertie Carteret looked out at the dull, prim square, where the sooty trees were trying to grow green. "Lord! think of the great clean air there blowing in over the sea, and the flowers in the old spring garden; and here with spring there is dust, and there are always pieces of paper blowing round corners."

Through a weary winter he had drawn the veil of friendship across love. Estelle's gentle face had brightened the world for him, a world which had grown very dark.

"Poor boy," she said softly now; and there was no friendship in her voice. Spring called. She was a woman, weary of watching the game she might not join. The wanton voice of London was in her ears to-day—the sooty, dark square, the prim room stifled her. Your being of transient emotions has frittered so many thrills, so many little mockeries of passion, that one a little deeper matters little; but the hard-held nature frets at barriers, tears at its self-made bit as its longing eyes look at the wide fields it must not go into. To give nature the rein for once, to know the glory of loving. Man and woman, one giving, one possessing, both tasting the joys of the gods.

"And it is always the same?" Estelle's strong, slim hands were pressed together as though she held something in them that she would not let go.

"It is always the same," he said bitterly. "The world—what Esmé calls the world—has dropped us. Somewhere—Heaven knows where—she finds the money to make another for herself. Is always with Cissie de Burgh—a woman glad to know anyone—with her friends the Henley leaders, and Frank Dravelling. Bridge parties, dinners, bitter tempers. I had to go to supper at the Savoy last night to find one table a mass of flowers and fruit, to see Esmé sweeping past her old friends, to hear her laughing too loud, talking for effect, so that they should see she did not care. It was a pretty party, with neither Tommy nor Lord Francis Dravelling quite sober."

As Sir Cyril Blakeney believed Esmé to be a thief, so her husband believed firmly now that some man must pay, and that she was too clever to let him find out.

Their roads lay apart; they were frigidly friendly, and the depth of Esmé's hurt prevented her asking for an explanation.

She did not know why her London turned its head away from her; never guessed that Denise had let her fall under such a vile suspicion—to save herself. Never guessed either why Bertie grew suddenly cold, told her one day that for the future she would still hold his name but no more.

Brooding, sore, Esmé's brilliant beauty faded; she lived, clawing at the spiked door which closes the room called right. It was bitter to see her book empty of engagements, to hear the cold "Not at home" of well-drilled butlers, to be left out of bridge at the club. For a time she went there, sitting alone, then it hurt too much; she went no more. As Cain she was tempted to cry out that her punishment was greater than she could bear.

"Leave London. Come to Cliff End," Bertie pleaded once.

"No! Someone has lied, and I must find out who. No, Bertie, I can find other friends."

They were found. Esmé spent money recklessly. Smiled now on people she would not have bowed to. Went to houses whose reputation had endured one of the many smudgings. Played high, and lost and won. Ate grilled bones at six o'clock in the morning, and tried to make it pleasure. Her tongue could trip lightly over well-known names. She was welcome in the new set, which called folly, smartness, and weak vice, life.

What was it? A cloak may hide a sore, but the very manner of the concealing chafes the thing it covers.

Unpitied, wrongly suspected, Esmé's heart broke as she tore at the locked door. If one could find the backward road—if the Great Powers would give us back the years, seeing as we see now. Lie and scream and bleed, little human, the way is always onward—there are no scissors to cut the false stitches we have made.

If she could go back to that careless springtime and do right. Take motherhood as woman's right and joy and pain; guess how she would love the child which then she had dreaded.

"I was mad—mad," Esmé would groan, and yet blame circumstance and opportunity and Denise, rather than her own selfish weakness.

If Denise had not come to her she must have gone through with it, and gained peace and happiness.

Selfishness and greed and fear had stood for her boy's sponsor, had marred both these women's lives. And Justice, smiling grimly, saw one floating on a flood-tide of prosperity, made happy and successful by her scheming. The other an outcast, broken in health and spirit. Justice sat quiet. To some the whip is administered at once; to all the punishment, the payment of the fine. Interest grows in the black ledger of our sins.

Two women had schemed successfully, and other lives were drawn now into the mesh.

"I am very tired of it all, Estelle." Bertie got up restlessly. "Very tired. My home is no home. My old friends look at me with a pity which is worse than enmity. I went to Denise Blakeney once. I asked if she knew what was amiss, and she turned red and white and stammered, and 'Oh, no, of course not—unless there might be some scandal, something foolish.' I came away, knowing she would not tell me the truth she knew of."

Estelle's head turned away; she knew; she had heard the black suspicion, but she could not tell Bertie Carteret that the world held his wife to be a thief. Better let him suspect the other, which was not true.

"Well, little companion?" He stopped his restless pacing, looked down at the sunny brown hair, and at the girl's sweet, glowing face. "How is it all to end?"

"When I go back to—to Cape Town," she said.

The words were as knives slashing at self-control, cold steel carving finely at an open raw.

"No," he slipped out. "By Heaven! you shall not go."

"But I must." Then Estelle's voice faltered; she knew what it would be to part, with nothing known of love save imagining, save a few hand-clasps—friends must not kiss; save the sweetness of nearness driving home from theatres.

"No," he said again. He caught her hands suddenly, held them closely.

"You would take my only comfort," he muttered. "Estelle—don't go."

Man does not see sometimes his supreme selfishness. That this girl should eat her life out to keep him from his sorrows.

"I ... let us go out," she said.

Outside spring rioted, danced, kissing men and maids to madness and to merriment. His breath passion, his light touch a thrill.

"Come from this sooty sarcophagus," Bertie said.

They drove to the Park, and on to Kensington Gardens, where London plays at being the countryside. There the big trees were really green; one could look through the tracery at the blue sky, and forget the great city roaring at right and left, at back and front. Toy lap-dogs, belled and netted, and larger dogs held on leash, by well-dressed men and women, bereft of liberty, told that this was a mere painted scene, and no true piece of country.

But it was fresh. Spring danced there gleefully. Summer would gather the harvest; spring was the sower of love thoughts.

Estelle strolled across the grass, sat down at length on a wooden bench, where a great beech above her made green fretwork against a sea of tender blue.

They were silent. Everyday words were out of tune to spring's music; and they feared to say the others.

"You cannot go, Estelle. You will not really." Bertie harked back to the fear of parting.

"And if I stayed," she said, suddenly mutinous, alluring.

"If you stayed," he whispered, then grew grave. "Could two people not make a world for themselves, Estelle, and be happy in it alone?"

She held sweet fruit to her aching mind, then broke through to the hard kernel of the truth.

"No, for we are never alone," she said gently. "That is the weariness of it. There are no two who strive to make this world who do not draw others inside the hedge of their secret orchard."

His hand fell on hers softly.

"Then, since there is no future, I'll have to-day," he said sharply. "We'll dine and do a theatre, Estelle, and sup recklessly in some quiet place."

What theatre? Bertie had a paper in his pocket; they bent over it.

"This new thing—Spring," he said.

"It's advanced, isn't it?" she asked.

"It's very much so, they say. Miss Prude! But I am not in the mood for flounced virtue set in Scotch, nor for all the solid worth which the fashion follows. The music's lovely. I hear the piece floats through a pale green wood, and over primroses and daffodils, away to a sapphire sea."

"Let it be Spring then," she said. "This day is yours, my friend."

Friend! whose hand lay hot on hers, when their eyes met half joyously, half despairingly. Joy that fate should have allowed them to meet; despair that since man and woman are created for each other they could not know the fullness of happiness.

A cord long strained will snap at last. The cord of self-restraint which they had tied up the hands of nature with had come to its last strand, and they knew it.

The spring day slipped away to the hour when the curtain rose on the new musical play. Well-named, for it was light and sweet as spring himself, full of tenderly passionate music, of waking love, of budding youth. Tame blood which would not run a little faster as the south and west winds, the sunshine and the showers, came creeping to wake the spring earth maidens. Girls veiled in tender green, their limbs and faces seen through a mist of some transparency. The wild winds blew the draperies aside; a mock gale blowing from the wings; sunshine turned the green to a glow of gold; the showers came, mistily green, with light behind them, but to each the maidens turned, trembled, and gave themselves to the wooing arms.

The whole piece was full of suggestion and of fantasy.

Quiet Estelle, watching, felt the longing in her blood grow stronger; was youth to pass and leave her unwoken by a lover? Was she never to know the madness of hot kisses, the restful heaven of the afterwards?

"I dreamt once that I had found Spring"—Bertie's voice sounded far away to her—"and it was a mocking wraith. Estelle, if we might find it together—you and I."

"If!" She moved her hands to the time of a haunting dance.

The house was full. People who had been the Carterets' friends were here and there. Dollie Gresham, with the Blakeneys; the Holbrooks in a box, often looking sadly at a pair in the stalls—the Marquis and Marchioness of Boredom.

One big box at the left, empty until the middle of the second act, was suddenly filled by a noisy crowd. Three women came to the front, throwing back rich cloaks, showing over-bare necks and arms, flashing with jewels; the background was filled in with the black-and-white uniform of dining mankind.

"Esmé," Bertie whispered, "with those people."

Poor Esmé, glaring defiance at the friends who had cut her, her cheeks scarlet, her lips crimson, dazzlingly handsome still, but haggard, bad style, laughing too gaily, talking too loudly, holding up her careless happiness too openly. And straight opposite, Denise, quietly dressed, placidly happy, avoiding Esmé's challenging looks.

The parts had been played and gone strangely for the players.

"My wife," said Carteret, bitterly, "with a crowd of fourth-rate impossibilities—and looking...." He paused, expressively. "Estelle, do you think a man likes to see his wife look like that? I hope she may not see us."

A vain hope. Esmé's restless eyes looked everywhere. She started, turned laughingly to Lord Francis Dravelling.

"See my immaculate spouse and his flame," she said, "there, in the stalls. I used to like the girl once, but I leave her to Bertie now."

"Hot stuff, eh?" said the boy, his eyes devouring Esmé. Then he whispered to her eagerly.

Esmé's eyes grew hard, her face set bitterly.

Bertie, the man she had once loved dearly, was sitting with another woman, and she was listening, without anger, to a bold suggestion. And all, everything, had come from that one rebellion against nature and custom.

"I am not taking you among the world to-night," Bertie said to Estelle. "I've ordered a quiet supper in a quiet place."

It had turned cold; they drove to a hotel, went to a warm room, its stiffness tempered by huge bowls of flowers, supper laid on the table.

The waiter discreetly presumed that they would ring if he was required; he left them with a faintly un-waiter-like grin.

Estelle was not hungry; she pecked at aspic and foie gras, but drank champagne; glad as the sparkling wine banished care, did its allotted work.

It was peaceful in there; the scent of the flowers filled the room; the fire burnt brightly.

They left the half-eaten meal and came to the glow of the blazing coals.

"Estelle!" The last strand snapped. Bertie's arms closed round the girl, crushed her supple body to his, kissed her with the reverence of great passion. "Estelle!" he said. "You are spring—turn to me."

The lips that answered his, the arms that clung about his neck told him she loved him.

Forgetting the barrier of custom and law, they snatched bliss from the greedy gods. Yet, even as he held her, Bertie knew this was no creature of light intrigues; she might come to him in a glory of sacrifice, to be his for all time; she would not sink to the furtiveness of secret meetings, to the sharing of her man with another home.

He put Estelle in a big chair, knelt before her, told her all the folly which is never old, which the great master Passion can tune anew each time. And what were they to do? Part—and let the world rob them of their joy, or....

"It must be all or nothing now," he said hoarsely. "We could meet so often, little sweetheart—be so happy."

"Living a lie," she said bravely, though with all her nature yearning for him. "No, Bertie, no."

He pleaded on—pleaded with lips which touched her hotly and yet reverently, with soft whispers of what life might mean. "Estelle—then come to me. Let us go away altogether. Take some house in the country, and live for each other. People would forget in time."

"And Esmé?" Estelle asked simply. "How would she live?"

"I would give her money, what I could spare; then she has someone who supports her; there is no doubt of that, Estelle, or I would not be here now. I would have buried my love for you, taken her away to Cliff End if she had been faithful to me."

"You do not know," Estelle faltered.

"I know she can pay bills, do as she chooses. It comes from someone."

Estelle sat silent. People said it came from stolen jewels, and she did not tell him. She knew him so well; she feared his burst of wrath, his going straight to Cyril Blakeney and demanding proof or retraction.

"It is time to go," Estelle said. "Bertie, I'll tell you to-morrow. Come to me about four. I'll be alone. I'll tell you then."

With a sudden thrill of fear and joy she knew that in her own sultry room she might be less strong.

"For if I lose you, I shall go to the Devil without you," Bertie said recklessly.

The heart of woman delights in self-sacrifice. Estelle knew that she would lose the world gladly to make her man happy. She was pure enough to look passion in the face and not hide hers; to joy in the thought of giving herself and to realize what it would mean.

"I will come to-morrow," Bertie said, his hands heavy on her bare shoulders, his eyes more eloquent than words.

The discreet waiter came padding noiselessly, took his bill and tip.

"But not our sort," he muttered, as Estelle went out.

Bertie Carteret walked home alone. Estelle would not let him drive with her. Far up the stars blinked in a violet sky, the cool spring wind blew against his flushed face. Having been, up to the present, a mere ordinary honourable man, he was miserable. Gloss it over as he might he knew what he was asking for.

The tall mass of the mansions towered high above him; he hated the place, its comfortless show.

"Mr and Mrs Rabbit, who live in a warren," he said, as he let himself in.

The little sitting-room was dusty, neglected, but he sat in it smoking until the stars went out and grey dawn came sickly pale to oust the night.

A motor siren bleated below. After a little he heard the swish of silk. Esmé, haggard and flushed, came into the room.

How she had changed. The childish look had gone for ever, replaced by a hard bitterness, by mirthless smiles.

"You!" she said carelessly. "You've made a night of it, my friend."

"I have been home for hours," he said coldly.

"Tiens! Who knows!" She went to a table, poured out brandy and opened a bottle of Perrier. "Who knows, my Bertie. I saw you with Her at the theatre."

He sprang up, white, angry, to find the words wither on his lips. How could he deny, refute, with to-morrow—nay, to-day—before him? He sat down again, wearily, as a man does who is very tired.

"Look here, Bertie." Esmé lighted the gas fire, flung off her cloak; her hair was tossed, her thin arms and neck bared to the bounds of decency, her dress was a sheath outlining each slender limb. "Look here!" she said. "You're sick of me. Let's have done with it. I'll meet you half-way."

"What do you mean?" he stammered.

"Mean?" She lighted a cigarette, then took a little tablet from a box and dropped one into her glass. "This is Nervine—Steadier—what you like," she mocked, "and really morphia. My nerves have gone to pieces. I mean—go away; refuse to come back; amuse yourself with the fair Estelle, and I'll divorce you. Frank Dravelling would marry me," she said eagerly.

Bertie gave no answer.

"And I'm sick of this. He's a bleating, mawkish calf, but he's got fifteen thousand a year for me to spend, and if I don't, a dozen other women will."

Cold disgust gagged him. Had she no sense of decent feeling, to talk like this? Was the girl he had married dead?

"He is at the age when he admires rouge and paint," mocked Esmé. "He'll make me My Lady, and Society will be glad to know me again. I'm sick of being no one, of seeing glum looks and tracking round with fifth-rate women. Come, Bertie! It's easily arranged."

As swift hands rub blurred glass, so that one can see clearly through what was dim, Esmé's words let the man's mental eyes look across the future.

Estelle, his pure little Estelle! This painted, haggard woman would make a cat's-paw of her, drag her shamed name into the maw of the press, and stand aloof herself, an injured wife. And he—he—in his madness had been about to help her. Hidden by glamour of passion, how different it had been to this standing naked, showing its distorted limbs. Let sorrow come or go, he knew that he would not now drag the woman he loved into sinning. These are the world's laws, men say, yet surely God's laws also, since to break them means remorse and punishment. Slight bonds of custom, but holding sane humanity.

"You have a curious mind," he said at last. "My God, have you no sense of right or wrong, Esmé—no shade of decency left?"

"Oh, leave sermons to the Church," she said roughly.

"And supposing"—he got up, stood facing her, man baited, driven to bay—"I were to divorce you, my wife?"

"You can't," she said coolly. "If I stay out all night it's with companions. And look here, Bertie, I am sick of it all. I say, let me divorce you, or I'll take proceedings myself. If you are wise any woman of the streets will serve your purpose; if you are not, your pure Estelle's name will be in every paper. See!"

She tossed a photograph across to him. A glimpse of sea and cliff, and two people asleep, lying close to a bank. Their faces were clear; the girl, lying back, had one hand outstretched; the man, his face against the bank, had his upon it.

"Repose," said Esmé, coarse meaning in her voice, as every shade of colour whickered from her husband's face. "Repose by the sea."

The girl's face was Estelle Reynolds; the man's his own.

"Marie's young man is a photographer; he snapped this at the seaside one day in June, years ago. Marie brought it to me, commenting on the likeness to you. I kept it. Come, Bertie, give me freedom, or I'll take it."

Holding the photograph, he saw what its evidence would mean. Idle to prate of innocence with this before the jury. It might be printed with a dozen suggestive names below it. His uncle would turn against him; Estelle would not get over it.

"Well?" she said, watching him.

"No, but ill," he answered. "Yes, it's true. We dropped asleep sitting looking at the sea. Pah! what use to tell you?... We merely dropped asleep. But if you show this there shall be counter action, Esmé."

"As I said," she flung out defiantly—"if I stay out at night, it's with companions."

He was ready with his counter-thrust; it darted, swift and true.

"From what companion," he asked slowly, "do you get your money? Do you think me a fool, Esmé, not to have noticed all that you spend and pay?"

The colour ebbed from her face now, leaving the reddened mouth, the rouged cheeks, standing out unnaturally.

Evidence was so easy to find and trump up; she wanted her freedom, but with her name untouched—it was her one chance.

"I've known for months or more that there was someone," he went on. "There is such a thing as common intelligence, Esmé."

"You've known for months and years—known that there was someone," Esmé repeated; her red lips drew away from her white teeth as she sat, stunned. So Bertie had believed her a light woman, untrue to him, a creature vending her beauty to some man. That, too, the consequence of her deceiving, of her folly.

She sat still, a stricken thing, her eyes alone alive in her face.

"That, I suppose, was why you changed to me," she whispered, in a curious metallic voice.

"That was why I ceased to love you—to live with you as your husband," he said simply and very sadly.

"That too!" The words rasped from between her white teeth, and suddenly she laughed—a hopeless, mirthless laugh, coming in noisy gusts; laughed, sitting there, white and haggard, until the laughter changed to gulping, sobbing gasps.

"Don't, Esmé, don't," he cried. "Don't laugh like that."

She got up, her rich dress trailing round her thin limbs, the fire of her jewels catching the gleams from the electric light.

"So you won't let me divorce you?" she said. "Well, find my fellow-sinner if you can, and for the present say good-night to Mrs Cain."

Still laughing, she moved slowly across the room, and into her own; shut the door quietly behind her.

"That too!" she said. "Cut by Society; suspected by her husband." Oh, poor Esmé, just because she was a selfish, wicked fool. Poor Esmé—who was once so happy.

"Marie, I ... have you heard me? Marie—come!"

And then, for the first time, Esmé fainted; sank into a merciful blackness, lay cold and still, until Marie found her.

Estelle had decked her room with flowers; had put on a soft gown, when a messenger brought her a letter.

"Estelle, I will not come. You are not a woman for a selfish man to drag down. It is good-bye, and not good-bye for me, for I shall never lose sight of your dear face; but for you, you are a girl—young—forget me. Marry someone you can like; don't leave your life empty. Let home and the kiddies be the cloth to wipe my memory out with. Estelle, I've woken you. I speak from man to woman, plainly. Go to your mother, and marry, for thwarted nature leads to strange miseries. Good-bye, Estelle. Last night Esmé spoke out, and I saw where I was taking you to, and I'll not do it. My place is here, to save my wife, for who am I to prate of morality?"

Estelle read the letter, folded it up; the world was empty, swept clear of love and hope and tenderness.

Very quietly she went to her writing-table, sat down there.

"I have just got your letter," she wrote. "You are right, but one word. People believe that Esmé took, or got, jewels of Lady Blakeney's and sold them at Benhusan's and elsewhere. Her money comes from this source, they say. That is why people have cut her. I could not tell you before, and I was wrong. I do not believe it, but think that they were given to her by Denise Blakeney, and that there is some secret between them. Estelle."

She sent the letter by a cab.

"A thief!" Bertie Carteret turned white to the lips as he read. They called his wife a thief. He sat for an hour before he moved. Should he go to Cyril Blakeney, fling the foul slander in his face? What should he do?

"Move carefully, or I show this."

Esmé had the photograph which could brand Estelle before the world. He feared it, feared his wife. She came in now, dressed to go out.

"Esmé," he said hoarsely, "Esmé, do you know why people dropped you?"

"I have never known," she answered coldly. "Come, Bertie, are you more sensible to-day? Get out of my life and I'll let your girl's reputation be."

She was his wife, bore his name. He told her then, quickly, his brain reeling.

"They say that!" she cried wildly. "Denise let that lie pass. Denise knew, and let them say I stole."

There was no guilt in Esmé's storming, but a madness of rage, of blind, futile fury.

"Did you sell diamonds?" he asked. "Esmé, tell me the truth, and I'll see the slander buried. You are my wife."

"I did. I sold them," she flung out. "They have the evidence. But Denise gave them to me; she gave me money to buy silence. So that, too—that too! all for one thing. A thief to the world—a fallen woman to you. A thief! Oh, God! a thief!" Her hands were at her throat; she gasped a little. "Oh! I have borne enough," she raged wildly. "And now Denise shall suffer. Tell as much truth as will clear me, and give me back my own. You don't believe it, Bertie?" There was wild appeal in her tortured eyes.

"Before heaven, no, Esmé," he rang out.

"And your belief is as false. Before to-morrow you shall know what I am, and what I've done, and judge me then. I am going to find Denise. I'll send for you."

"What is there between you?" he asked. "What?"

"You'll know to-morrow." There were tears now in her eyes; just at the door she turned, held out her hands. "Forgive a sinner, Boy," she faltered, "though not the sinner you dream of." In all her bravery and paint she was very pitiful.

Before Bertie could answer she had slipped away.

She had gone to the Blakeneys; there was something between the two women.

Then Marie, trim, moving deftly, came in.

"Monsieur," she said.

"Well?" He hated the woman who held the photograph and had shown it.

"Monsieur, I would follow Madame. She was distraught, wild! There is some secret, Monsieur, between her and Milady Blakeney. Always notes to the club, and notes by special messenger for Madame, though it is that they do not speak. And, Monsieur, I leave to-day. I go to be married. I will speak. Has Monsieur never suspected anything? Before I left Madame, Madame was enceinte. I know, I could not be mistaken. The two Madames then disappear—alone. Has Monsieur never seen?"

"What?" almost shouted Bertie. He got his hands on the maid's shoulder, unconsciously he shook her.

"How like Milady Blakeney's son is to Madame here," hissed Marie; "that when he was ill Madame sat here as one distraught. Ah! gently, Monsieur."

"You mean?" he gulped out, letting go.

"That Milady Blakeney is not the mother of one of her children," said the Frenchwoman, softly. "And that sorrow for having parted with her child has made Madame so miserable as she is now. Follow her, Monsieur. She is worn out from drugged sleep—from remedies full of the cocaine. Follow her swiftly."

"Woman, I think you're mad."

With a groan stifled in his throat Bertie ran down the stairs and hailed a taxi to drive to Grosvenor Square.

The butler was human; distress and gold broke his reserve.

"Her ladyship was out of town. Master Cecil had not been well, and her ladyship and the children were at Trelawney in Devonshire."

Trelawney was the village close to Cliff End.

"Mrs Carteret was here, sir. She got a time-table and looked out the trains; she has left for Devonshire, I fancy. There is a fast train reaching Trelawney at about four, no other now for some time. Mrs Carteret, sir, said she would get a motor, as it would be much quicker."

"You, Carteret!" Cyril Blakeney had driven up in his big car. "What is the matter? You look ill."

"Slander's the matter. Mischief's the matter," Bertie burst out. "A story too strange for credence is the matter."

"A moment! Come in here. The doorstep's no home for confidence."

"With you—who spread this lying tale!" rasped Bertie.

The two men faced each other. One worn from unhappiness; one big, prosperous, untroubled.

"You've only heard it now then? Now, Carteret? Come in here. You're ill. Keep the car, Jarvis! Come and hear my side."

There was something dominant in Sir Cyril; his will forced Bertie into the dining-room, kept him there to listen to the explanation. There, quietly, without any exaggeration, he told the whole story.

"And you believed this? One side," said Bertie, bitterly. "Sir Cyril, your wife lied; she gave diamonds to my wife."

"Gave them? Why?" The big man's voice rang in cool contempt. "That's your wife's story to you."

"As silence money for some secret. Esmé told me that. It must have been when they were away in Italy. Sir Cyril, my wife was not lying to-day. It was the truth."

"And if mine was?" The big chin stuck out, the heavy brows drew together. Cyril Blakeney could always think quickly. "As silence money," he muttered.

Bertie talked on, told how he had spoken to Esmé, and what she had said. "And she was telling the truth," he said proudly. "She's no thief, Blakeney."

Denise had spent a great deal of money; Cyril knew that; on charity, she said. He had no thought of what it could be. He believed in his wife as much as he believed in any woman.

"Come to Trelawney," he said quietly. "My car is at the door. We cannot catch a train now, and if your wife is hysterical, overwrought, there may be trouble."

As a man in a dream, Bertie went with Sir Cyril, heard the quiet questioning, nothing forgotten.

"The tank's fairly full, isn't it? Put out the jack and the levers. We shall not want you, Anderson. Now, Carteret. Oh, you'll want a coat—take one of mine. We must run fast for it's a long way."

The big Daimler glided off, threading her decorous, restrained way through London, gathering speed in the endless dreariness of the suburbs, shooting past tradesmen's carts, past suburban children herded by nurses in spotless white, for Suburbia on two hundred a year must not be surpassed by Belgravia on four thousand. Then the open country, the hum of warm engines, the glorious rush of the highly-powered car through the sunlit world, spurning the miles, taking the hills contemptuously, rushing along the level. Roads showed white ribbons, and then when that ribbon was gone another was to be ruled off. Policemen sprang out waving angry hands; the red car was past and away, and the quiet man who drove did not mean to stop. They stopped once for petrol and water, drank a whisky and Perrier, and munched some biscuits.

"Not bad." Cyril Blakeney looked at the clock which marked five as they tore into Trelawney. "We left at eleven. Now we shall know."

He drove to a little red-brick house looking on to the bay. Denise had brought her Cecil down to grow strong in the soft mild air; the boy had caught cold and been delicate.

Mrs Stanson was at the door, her face wrapped in a shawl. She came to meet them.

Her ladyship was out, she said, had taken the children to the bay.

"My face ached, Sir Cyril. Her ladyship said she would go alone without Ellen."

"Has Mrs Carteret been here?" Sir Cyril asked. "Quickly, nurse, answer!"

Mrs Stanson blushed, faltered. "Yes, Sir Cyril. She came in a motor, has gone out to her ladyship. Oh! is anything wrong?"

"Yes!" Cyril Blakeney's face was very quiet, but his eyes gleamed thoughtfully. "Where shall we find them, Mrs Stanson?"

There were two bays, one on each side of the town; two stretches of firm sands. Mrs Stanson looked dubious.

It appeared that the children had quarrelled as they started. Master Cyril wanted to go to the bay to the east, where the big rock ran out into the sea. Master Cecil to the west bay.

"Then it is sure to be this way." Sir Cyril turned to the right—to the west. "Come, Carteret—we'll walk fast."

Something was making Bertie Carteret afraid. The two men had scarcely spoken on the way down. Just once Sir Cyril had asked: "You think you're right, Carteret?" and Bertie had answered: "Yes. My wife's no thief. She was given those jewels."

"Then there is something," Cyril said. "Something!" and did not speak again.

"I'll go the other way." Bertie pointed to the cliffs. "One never knows, and Esmé was dreadfully excited. I'll go along the cliffs, Blakeney; I can see the whole shore, and there are passages leading down, and the cliff path is quicker walking."

"Very well! It's all rather a fuss about nothing, isn't it, Carteret?"

Bertie hurried away towards the cliffs. An opal evening was falling on the world. The sea glimmered and sparkled out to the sinking sun. As he hurried, Bertie could see the woods of Cliff End, and the gables of the old house. So far he had seen no one on the beach. The tide was coming in, creaming back softly over the sands, nosing upwards on the rocks.

He was coming close to where he had sat with Estelle and known for the first time that he loved her. Far below was a stretch of firm sand, with a curious rock running out, deep water always at its landward side—a treacherous, slippery rock, not high above the water, but its sides sheer and steep.

Then he saw Denise Blakeney and his wife. Esmé was gesticulating, speaking loudly. Denise standing with bent head and outstretched, pleading hands. He saw little Cecil playing with his spade, making a castle.

The next downward track was some way on. He watched for a minute.

"Bertie!" He swung round, astonished.

Estelle, with lines in her pale face, was on the cliffs.

"You!" he jerked out. "Here—to-day. Why?"

She flushed. "I ... came to say good-bye to the cliff here," she said gently. "Where I knew for the first time that you were my world, Bertie. I came down this morning. I was walking back to Trelawney now to catch a train."

For a minute he forgot everything except that the girl beside him would understand and sympathize. He stood pouring out his story; there was no hurry.

Estelle listened, saw suddenly that Marie had not dreamed; looked back on little incidents.

"Her child!" she muttered. "Poor Esmé. Oh, Bertie, listen! we can hear what they are saying, and it's as well to know."

The voices rang clearly. Esmé was flinging out passionate words, demanding justice.

"You'll not take him," Denise cried. "Esmé, it would ruin me."

"Did you think when you allowed me to be ruined?" stormed Esmé—"saw me cut, banned by my friends?"

"You wrote a foolish letter," wailed Denise. "Cyril thought you had stolen the diamonds. I never told him so."

"No, but to save yourself you left it at that. You acted a cruel lie. Now give me my boy. I have borne enough."

"You cannot prove it," Denise sobbed piteously. "No, Esmé, no."

"I can and will. Because I was weak, and loved ease and pleasure, all this has come. The world believes me to be a thief—my husband that I am an adulteress. At least I'll have my boy. Oh, Denise, do you know how I've longed for him? How my whole life has been one ache of regret?"

"But the scandal. Oh, God! I cannot face Cyril." Denise flung herself down on the soft sand, gripping it with her hands. "I'll give you more money, anything."

"Nothing but the truth will give me back my honour. Where is the boy?"

"Cecil wanted some red seaweed for his castle. Cyril is on the rock getting it," said Cecil, looking up. "Mumsie not let Cecil go."

"On the rock!" Esmé sprang round.

The two on the cliff could hear the raised voices. With white, strained faces they listened, bewildered, almost afraid.

"The boy is hers. It is true," whispered Bertie. "Look, he's out on the rock, and it's slippery, dangerous. He ought to keep down."

A little figure was toiling along the sharply-cut edge. The tide was washing at the safe side where the rock merged into the sands, so Cyril kept high up.

"It's not safe; he may fall. You want to kill him," Esmé cried, beginning to run towards the rock.

It was safe at low tide, because the sands were bare, but no place for baby feet on the upper side above the deep water.

"You would not have let Cecil go," Esmé stormed as she hurried on. "Oh, Cyril, stop! Keep near the tide."

Perhaps her voice frightened the child as he picked his way. He started, slipped, and fell over. In a second a little white face could be seen on the calm, dark water.

"Cyril, oh, Cyril! Oh, my baby!" rose a shrieking cry.

With mad haste Esmé tore off her skirt and sprang into the sea, clutching at the sinking child. She caught him as he came up for the third time, and swam back holding him. But the black sides towered sheer and straight four feet above her; the seaweed gave as she caught it; the child was a dead weight on one arm, and she had hurt the other jumping in.

"Get help," she cried. "Get help, Denise."

Denise lay on the sands, shrieking, half-unconscious, useless and helpless.

"They'll drown! Go for help, Estelle. I may get down to them in time." Bertie swung over the edge of the cliff, beginning a perilous climb.

Another rescuer went hurrying too.

"It's Cyrrie! My Cyrrie, dwownin'."

Baby Cecil left his castle, began to patter out along the rock, sobbing as he ran. "Wait, Cyrrie, wait! I tumin' to help. Oh, my Cyrrie!"

Half-way down Bertie knew that he ought to have run on to the path. Sometimes he hung and thought he could go no further, then dropped and scrambled, and caught some point which saved him. He was still too high up to jump when he came to a jutting ledge and could see no way on. There, Esmé, clinging, slipping, as she called for help, looked up and saw him.

"Bertie!" she said. "You followed me."

She stopped calling out, clutched a new piece of seaweed and grew strangely quiet.

"Bertie, I'm not worth it," she said. "Don't risk anything."

Voices are strangely clear across the water; hers rang plainly.

"I'll come, Esmé. I must find a way. I'll save you."

"I'm going to drown, Bertie. I'm so tired, it won't hurt much; but I've time to talk a little."

As he raged up and down his ledge he heard her voice telling, as quietly as though they were in some room, safe and sheltered, her story.

"Send for Luigi Frascatelle, he'll identify me as the boy's mother. Bertie, I sold my birthright, but I've been punished for it, so forgive me now, and keep my Cyrrie—he's alive."

The pity of it as she clung there—young, pretty, once so happy. Truly, the punishment had been hard.

"Esmé! I see a way. I'll get down in five minutes. Live on and let the past be."

Twice she had felt the water at her lips, once her boy had almost slipped from her arms.

"I would have swum round but one arm is hurt," she said weakly. "Bertie, I think the boy is dying. If he dies let Denise be. Don't tell if she will clear my name."

A man ran out along the rock, heard the faltering words.

"By the God above us she shall clear it," stormed Bertie, "and give us back our child. No, Esmé, no. Oh, wait! I'm down."

He was in the water now, swimming strongly, too late; the last strand of weed had parted; weak, tired Esmé had slipped to her rest in the cool, clear water. And as she went, little Cecil, sobbing wildly, holding out his spade, fell over into the sea.

A clawing, twisted woman rose from the sands, screaming wildly, looking up as baby Cecil fell over.

Sir Cyril ran past her, kicking off his shoes as he went.

Bertie hesitated for a second, but the struggling, drowning mite had fallen in coming to try to save Cyril; he turned, swam to Cecil, and carried the child to the rock, where his father leant over.

"Quickly, man!—we'll dive," Sir Cyril cried.

"I give you back your child," Bertie said. "Mine is gone for ever." He swam on.

Diving, he brought up Esmé, her boy clasped to her.

Estelle had fetched help. They carried the still figures quickly to the cliff and back to the house.

"You meant?" Cyril Blakeney said as he went with him, carrying his drenched boy.

"Cyril is Esmé's child," Bertie said bitterly. "Your wife bought him from her. I heard it all as they talked on the sands. She told me where to find proof."

"Ah!" said Cyril, slowly. "Ah!"

Denise was tottering behind them, wild with fear, grey-faced, all beauty reft from her.

"God send," said Sir Cyril, reverently, "that both come to, and we live to repay for the blight we cast on your wife's name, Carteret."

"I cast a worse one," said Bertie, fiercely.

Then long-drawn working, as the living strive with death, as the poor quiet body is forced to life. But no working brought a quiver to little Cyril; they left him at last quiet in his cot; the motherless boy was at peace for ever.

Esmé's breath came fluttering. She had closed her eyes on sea and sky, opened them to see watching, kindly faces.

"Hush, do not speak," they told her.

"Cyril?" she whispered, and knew without an answer.

"Then let it rest," she murmured, and so drifted out again, this time for ever, into the land of shadows, glad to go and rest.

*****

Denise, half wild, had stumbled in alone, sobbing, shivering, unnoticed, as the household worked for the two lives.

Cecil had been put to bed; his hip was hurt; he lay still and exhausted; sometimes asking for "Cyrrie—my Cyrrie."

"Not you, mumsie—Cyrrie," he said fretfully. "I couldn't pull Cyrrie out—fetch Cyrrie."

Mrs Stanson, weeping for her eldest charge, came in. Seeing her, hope leapt up suddenly into Denise's heart.

"The boy, milady?" Mrs Stanson sobbed. "No hope. We've laid him to rest."

"And—Mrs Carteret?"

"Came to, and passed away, milady."

The wave of hope swelled high. For as all the punishment had fallen on the woman who lay still in the pretty drawing-room, it might lie on her still. No one else knew.

"She spoke?" Denise faltered.

"Once, milady—to ask for Master Cyril; and again to say, 'Let it rest.'"

"Ah!" The greyness slipped from Denise's cheeks. The dead cannot speak. After all, she was to escape.

Then, his big bulk filling the door, her husband came in, Carteret following.

"Oh! oh!" she cried, and held her hands out, sobbing. "Oh, Cyrrie! the boy and poor Esmé. She died to save him. Oh!"

"You can go, Mrs Stanson." The sick fear crept back to Denise Blakeney's heart. "Yes, Cyrrie is gone; and now, Denise, you will tell the truth."

"The truth," she faltered. "I—and I am so miserable."

"You'll tell how you gave those diamonds to Mrs Carteret. You'll publish it in the big papers. That is one part—and then ... now the rest of the truth," he thundered. "Oh, you two poor fools."

"But, Cyril—what else?"

"All the rest," came quickly. "Of Italy and Esmé Carteret's child."

It was over. Denise tottered to a chair, sat there staring; her punishment had fallen at last.

Then, faltering, stumbling, yet afraid to lie, Denise Blakeney told the story. Of Esmé's fear of poverty; of her own wish for a child. "And then it was arranged," she said; "we changed names. The boy was Esmé's. Luigi Frascatelle, the doctor, can tell you."

"The big, splendid boy was yours, Carteret; the poor, puny mite mine," said Cyril Blakeney, bitterly. "Well done, Denise! When a foolish girl was hysterical, foolish, as women are at these times, you advised her well. Lord! I know what she felt when I've seen her looking, looking at her own boy, with heartbreak in her eyes. I've wondered, but did not understand then. It was a pretty plot, milady, to fool me back to an untrue wife. Carteret, we are no judges to blame these two, but one has known her punishment, and one has not."

"Cyril!" sobbed Denise, "have pity! It was for you."

"For me? Pardon me, for my name and my position, knowing that I meant to rid myself of you," he answered coldly. "Carteret, Miss Reynolds is with your dead wife—go to her."

"Cyril," moaned Denise again. "You'll not expose me, for the boy's sake."

She was on her knees by Cyril's side, sobbing, entreating.

"That is for Carteret to decide," he answered. "Go to your room; you will only excite the child."

In the days to come, Denise, fighting for her delicate boy's life, knew no open disgrace. One poor foolish woman had borne it all and died; but the other left behind knew the misery of daily fear. She was a cipher, given no trust or belief; and with her always was the dread that as Cecil grew older he would be taken from her.

Cyril Blakeney, an embittered man, never forgave her.

Denise came to him the evening of Esmé's death to ask what he would do.

He was writing, making arrangements for the funeral.

"You let a woman be disgraced before the world, you let that boy whom you disliked go into danger where no baby should have gone," he said. "But you are Cecil's mother—so keep the position you schemed for—and no more."

The big man went back to his loneliness; he had loved strong Cyril, had dreamt of a boy who would run and shoot and swim and ride; and now, Cecil, injured by his fall from the cliff, would be lame for life.

Esmé sleeps in a graveyard by the sea; close by her a little grave with "Cyril, drowned the 21st of April," on it. And on her tombstone is the inscription: "She gave her life to save a child's."

Estelle and Bertie, living in the quiet country, happy, yet with a shadow of regret ever with them, guessed, as they came often to the grave, what the weak girl must have suffered.

"Judge no human being until you know the truth," said Bertie once, "for misery rode poor Esmé with a sharp spur across the thorns of recklessness. Poor Butterfly, whose day of fluttering in the sunlight was so short."

Yet, even with the shadow behind them, two of the players are happy, every-day man and woman with troubles and joys.

THE END

COLSTONS LIMITED, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH

March, 1914

JOHN LONG'S ANNOUNCEMENTS

All JOHN LONG'S Books are published in their Colonial Library as nearly as possible simultaneously with the English Editions

SIX SHILLING NOVELS

Crown 8vo., Cloth Gilt. Many in Three-Colour Wrappers

THE GREATER LAW. By Victoria Cross, Author of "Anna Lombard," "Five Nights," "The Life Sentence," "Life of My Heart," etc.

"The Greater Law" is a story that touches the deepest currents of human feeling, vibrating with power and intensity perhaps even more than those which have previously emanated from the pen of this intrepid writer. The many episodes of a brief romance are treated naturally and sincerely and with masterly ability. It is, indeed, a typical Victoria Cross novel.

SUNRISE VALLEY. By Marion Hill, Author of "The Lure of Crooning Water," etc. [Not supplied to Canada.]

"The Lure of Crooning Water," by Marion Hill, was one of the fictional landmarks of last year, consequently her succeeding book is bound to evoke more than ordinary interest. "Sunrise Valley" involves a contrast between the ideals of Town and Country; the wealth of Stanley Ballantyne, manliest of millionaires, is confronted with the independence of Blanche Dering, sweetest of heroines. The novel should set the seal upon a victorious beginning.

THE WOMAN RUTH. By Curtis Yorke, Author of "The Vision of the Years," etc.

Readers of Curtis Yorke do not need to be commended to her latest novel. The secret of her continued success is that she never gives us less than her best. "The Woman Ruth" epitomises the qualities of head and heart to which she has accustomed us. An optimistic view of life—tenderness, humour, human sympathy—these are the main weapons in this gifted author's bright and shining armoury.

SYLVIA. By Upton Sinclair, Author of "The Jungle," "The Moneychangers," etc. [Not supplied to Australia or Canada.]

"Sylvia" is the greatest work that has come from the pen of this brilliant author, surpassing "The Jungle" both in the bigness of its theme and in its dramatic intensity. Just as the timeliness of "The Jungle" promoted its great success, so "Sylvia" appears at the psychological moment when social questions are to the front. It is a fascinating story, presenting a girl-character more charming, more powerful, more remarkable in every way than Mr. Sinclair has yet drawn, while beneath lies a vein of serious purpose, a criticism of contemporary ethics which ranks it among the profoundest moral forces of the day.

DESMOND O'CONNOR. By George H. Jessop, Author of "His American Wife," etc.

Desmond O'Connor was a good fighter, a brisk wooer, and a breezy companion on the march or in the bivouac. He was one of the many wandering Irishmen who drew the sword for France after the siege of Limerick. It was while in the service of Louis XIV., in Flanders, that he met the lovely Countess Margaret, and surrendered to her charms. One will find a no more romantic story of love and war than is contained in these pages.

BLESSINGTON'S FOLLY. By Theodore Goodridge Roberts, Author of "Love on Smoky River," etc. [Not supplied to Canada.]

The qualities which made "Love on Smoky River" such an instantaneous and unqualified success are again brought into play in the present novel. The author unfolds his theme with skill and power, and fully maintains the reputation he has gained for telling a good story well.

AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE. By Violet Tweedale, Author of "The House of the Other World," etc.

This is a book of a very unusual type. It is a powerful novel dealing with Satanism, an evil cult which is making great headway in Europe. The man who forms the unholy alliance is Canon Gilchrist, who has been unfairly deprived of a peerage, and hopes to regain his position by the help of the Powers of Darkness. There is a charming love element, and the story shows the author at her best.

A GAMBLE FOR LOVE. By Nat Gould. (For Complete List of Nat Gould's Novels see pages 12 and 13).

This novel follows "A Fortune at Stake," the first novel by Nat Gould to be issued at the outset at 6s. The innovation was an immediate success. The new tale, "A Gamble for Love," should undoubtedly win for itself many admirers. The hero and heroine have strong dominating personalities, and the love interest is well sustained. The element of sport of course prevails, and the book may fairly be said to be as thrilling as any Mr. Nat Gould has written.

THE SECRET CALLING.. By Olivia Ramsey, Author of "Callista in Revolt," etc.

This is a love story of unusual charm dealing with the fortunes of two girls. An artist falls in love with one; the other rejects the brilliant marriage arranged for her by her worldly aunt. Each girl seeks safety in flight. How both are finally won by the men who love them is convincingly described by the author. In this book she again displays her acknowledged skill as a clever novelist.

THE SNAKE GARDEN. By Amy J. Baker, Author of "I Too Have Known," "The Impenitent Prayer," etc.

As with her two previous successes the scene is laid in South Africa. Miss Baker writes with a realism that is the outcome of personal experience. Theo, the heroine, is an unusual type of girl, and how she straightens out her life is told with rare humour and psychological insight. The book is remarkable for its clear-cut pictures of Colonial life.

THE BELOVED PREMIER. By H. Maxwell, Author of "Mary in the Market," "The Paramount Shop," etc.

The author imagines what would happen in England were the authorities to govern with absolute disinterestedness and singleness of purpose. The picture thus drawn depicts a topsy-turvy world indeed. The story is told with much humour and many shrewd thrusts at our most cherished institutions. It is an unusual book replete with good things.

THREE SUMMERS. By Victor L. Whitechurch, Author of "The Canon in Residence," "Left in Charge," etc.

Here is a book that will appeal to all who love a good plot and plenty of incident. It runs along fresh and sparkling and true to the end. The hero and heroine are cleverly depicted in this charming romance, which teems with lovable characters. It is a novel which enhances the reputation of this popular author.

THE RESIDENCY. By Henry Bruce, Author of "The Eurasian," "The Native Wife," etc.

The previous novels by Henry Bruce have secured for him an appreciative following. Like its predecessors, "The Residency" is a story of life in India. The heroine is a beautiful Eurasian who, after twenty-two years of sheltered life in England, rashly returns to India. The novel is an account of the passionate attachment she forms for a Native of rank. Mr. Bruce has a power of humour all too rare in these days. He tells the narrative in a masterly way.

PAUL MOORHOUSE. By George Wouil, Author of "Sowing Clover."

The Morning Post said, in reviewing the author's first novel, "Sowing Clover": "We shall look for Mr. Wouil's future with every anticipation of continuous and increasing delight." The second novel is another Black Country study, but of much greater dramatic power. It depicts the central character, reared in poverty, without influence or promise; of the struggles of youth; of artisan life, the prospect of a "little 'ome" and drab respectability; of ambition; of the coming of love; of the making of a gentleman, and the battle with environment.

THE WIDOW OF GLOANE. By D. H. Dennis, Author of "Crossroads," etc.

Mr. D. H. Dennis is one of the most promising exponents of the modern school of fiction. His new Work contains a capital idea. Phyllis, the heroine, who is a charming young widow when the story opens, meets and marries the playmate of her childhood. The narrative is full of good things, of wit as well as wisdom, and readers who like their fiction to be brainy as well as human will thoroughly enjoy its pages.

THE BARBARIANS. By James Blyth, Author of "Rubina," "Amazement," etc.

The marital relationship is the keynote of "The Barbarians" Original, virile, human, bold and sympathetic, the novel, both in interest and craftsmanship, is a worthy successor of a sequence of brilliantly limned portraits of the feminine character. It is the tale that matters, and as a story teller Mr. Blyth may well challenge comparison.

UNDER COVER OF NIGHT. By R. Murray Gilchrist, Author of "Weird Wedlock," etc.

A book of vivid atmosphere, probably the best of this author's novels of incident. Throughout, the strange country background, with its swiftly moving folk, gentle and simple, reminds one of a weird and fascinating drama. The contrast between the quiet inn house, and the dilapidated hall with its guilty secret, is admirably depicted. The plot is excellently fashioned and the unfolding of the mystery done with admirable restraint. The author understands to perfection the art of thrilling his readers.

MAIDS OF SALEM. By K. L. Montgomery, Author of "The Gate-Openers," "The Cardinal's Pawn," etc.

The witch-persecution of New England, one of the most dramatic chapters of American history, is the theme of K. L. Montgomery's new novel. The scene is Salem, Massachusetts Bay. The story is one of tragedy and romance, told in the inimitable way with which the author's admirers have been so charmed by her previous books.

THE DICE OF LOVE. By Edmund Bosanquet Author of "A Society Mother," "Mary's Marriage," etc.

Since the days of "A Society Mother," Mr. Edmund Bosanquet has gone far, and this, his latest romance, will more than satisfy the expectations of his admirers. The characters are never insipid, and have the happy knack of getting on the right side of the reader immediately. There is a sustained brilliance about the book which augurs well for its success.

THE MEMOIRS OF PRINCESS ARNULF.

These reminiscences form the record of the intimate life of the Princess Arnulf and her royal relatives. Not for many years has a work of such extraordinary interest been given to the reading public. It is the mart of news, of scandal, of rumour, of intrigue, of a galaxy of princes, courtiers, men and women of rank and fashion, of sullied virtue and invidious attachments.

WHY SHE LEFT HIM. By Florence Warden, Author of "Love's Sentinel," etc.

Miss Warden's gypsy heroine forms a very interesting study. It would be unfair to explain the plot of the story, but behind it is tragedy. The hero, Lord Tregaron, is a well-drawn personage, and so, indeed, are the other characters clustered around the charming heroine.

THE MAZE. By A. L. Stewart.

"The Maze" is the love story of a famous operatic singer who marries her protégé, a violinist considerably younger than herself. As is inevitable, their gifts clash and jealousy ensues. The plot is cleverly unfolded, and the book reaches a satisfactory conclusion. The scene is laid in London, Paris, and the West of England.

THE OYSTER. By a Peer, Author of "The Hard Way," "The Decoy Duck," etc.

The Novels of a Peer are distinguished among present-day fiction by their brilliant literary qualities and their deep emotional appeal to human hearts and sympathies. They are addressed to men and women who know the world and the significance of life: their keynote is strength. The motif of this enthralling story is centred upon the maternal instinct—the profoundest of all human feelings. An idea of consummate originality is presented in a manner free from reproach or any suspicion of pruriency.

A MILLION FOR A SOUL. By Mrs. C. E. Phillimore, Author of "Two Women and a Maharajah."

An Irish patriot bequeaths to his child, as her sole inheritance, his love for drink. She marries in India and through constant strain succumbs to the degrading habit. Cast off by her husband, her lover seeks to regain her and effect her regeneration. The story ends with this achieved, though the manner of its accomplishment is by way of the unexpected.

THE WHITE VAMPIRE. By A. M. Judd, Author of "Lot's Wife," etc.

This is a powerful story of love, hate, revolution, and revenge, woven around the central figure of a beautiful, fascinating, unscrupulous woman who lures men to ruin and then dooms them to a horrible fate. Retribution overtakes her at last through the love of one of her victims. The book contains many thrilling episodes, and the ending is highly dramatic.

LAW THE WRECKER. By Charles Igglesden, Author of "Clouds," etc.

Is it feasible that a sane man may be sent to a lunatic asylum? This vital question is answered by Mr. Igglesden in "Law the Wrecker." The author is especially qualified to deal with the subject, as he has acted as certifying magistrate for many years and been a governor of a county lunatic asylum. Life in a lunatic asylum is vividly and truthfully described. The plot is an exciting one with many dramatic situations, a young Colonial trying against heavy odds to prove his sanity to the girl he loves, and she in turn struggling with the doubt that racks her mind.

MARY'S MARRIAGE. By Edmund Bosanquet, Author of "A Society Mother," "Catching a Coronet," etc.

Securing public favour at the first time of asking—such is this author's almost unique record. That he has come to stay may be gathered from the progressive successes he has achieved since the days of "A Society Mother." This novel follows its predecessors in that it makes the same direct appeal to the average human heart. Readers in their thousands and tens of thousands will rejoice to know something about the heroine and her wayward marriage.

THE ENCHANTING DISTANCE. By Lilian Arnold, Author of "The Storm-Dog," etc.

This is a love story, in the development of which it becomes apparent that things are seldom what they seem and that the most passionate attachments are rarely based on pure reason. The adventures of the heroine in search of a life of her own in London are told with much humour.

A BESPOKEN BRIDE. By Fred Whishaw, Author of "Nathalia," etc.

Mr. Fred Whishaw's description in this novel of the gallant little nation, Finland, fighting to a man and woman against inevitable absorption by the irresistible giant at the threshold, is moving and holds the reader. Every Finn is a resister, active or passive. Some fight wisely, some foolishly, but all fight and all sacrifice self for the sake of the Motherland and her disappearing rights and privileges.

SALAD DAYS. By the Author of "Improper Prue," "The Price of Possession," etc.

This amusing novel can well be called a comedy of youth, for it depicts the invasion of a well-ordered English bachelor by a good-intentioned humourless Irish girl and twin young men of free and easy disposition. The bachelors are Mr. Weatherby, most chivalrous of victims, and his nephew, Richard Torr, an Oxford exquisite, who tries hard to save his own and his uncle's dignity under the most trying conditions. It is a book that men and women will laugh at and enjoy.

FROM PILLAR TO POST. By Alice M. Diehl, Author of "Incomparable Joan," etc.

For the many readers of Mrs. Diehl's novels the present story will be rather a new departure in female portraiture. The heroine's aristocratic descent, conflicting with her father's democratic ideas, is the pivot on which much of the tale turns. Her experiences as a wife, and yet all the time no wife, go to make up a very fascinating romance which shows that the author has lost none of her power.

CALLISTA IN REVOLT. By Olivia Ramsey, Author of "A Girl of No Importance," etc.

This dainty love-story is told with great charm and skill. A beautiful girl is forced, through adverse circumstances, to lead a monotonous existence in an isolated village. It is here that she is discovered by the wealthy Bruce Armadale, whose force of character is powerfully drawn. A dazzling dancer of London fame is introduced as a dangerous rival for his affection, and her plot to separate the lovers is convincingly told.

THE RANSOM FOR LONDON. By J. S. Fletcher, Author of "The Bartenstein Case," etc.

This is one of the most enthralling conceptions that has yet appeared in realistic fiction. From the advent of the stranger at the week-end retreat of the Prime Minister, with his demand for ten millions sterling as the ransom for London, right through to the end, the narrative compels attention. Mr. Fletcher has in this story surpassed himself.

ANGELS IN WALES. By Margam Jones, Author of "The Stars of the Revival," etc.

A tale of Welsh life in the last century, describing faithfully and vividly, in the glow of a sympathetic imagination, the joys and sorrows of the Celtic soul, and having for its central theme the all-important problem of true life. Here the lover of fiction will be continually charmed by a mysterious revelation of hidden life clothed in a new dress of spiritual psychology.

THE PRICE OF CONQUEST. By Ellen Ada Smith, Author of "The Only Prison," etc.

The story has its setting partly in the west country and partly amidst the changes and chances of London musical life. As a risen Star, Sigismund Wirth is happy as only the successful can be. How at last his weakness is discovered and his final victory over self achieved is shown in this clever novel.

FAITH AND UNFAITH. By James Blyth, Author of "Rubina," "Amazement," etc.

This novel is the study of a woman's love. The theme is developed with the certainty of touch and the clearness of vision which are the gifts of experience in life and art. It is as engrossing as the author's previous works, and a notable addition to his gallery of brilliant pen portraits of beautiful, frail women.

THE RED WEDDING. By E. Scott Gillies, Author of "A Spark on Steel," etc.

The novel deals with one of the stormiest periods of history and of the fierce feud between two Highland Clans, each so powerful that Queen Elizabeth sought to gain their friendship for England against the Scottish Sovereign, James IV. It is a story of love and jealousy and the gradual success of the true lover in the face of all obstacles.

ENVIRONMENT. By Mrs. A. M. Floyer.

The story illustrates the influence of environment upon character. The plot consists of episodes, amatory, humorous and otherwise, in the lives of people who are not always in their proper element. It should appeal to all who like something out of the beaten track.

RECENT POPULAR NOVELS

SIX SHILLINGS EACH

Several of these novels were the successes of last year. Some reached the distinction of a Second Edition and even a Third Edition, whilst with "The Lure of Crooning Water" a Thirteenth Edition was called for.

  LOVE ON SMOKY RIVER             Theodore G. Roberts
  SOWING CLOVER                   George Wouil
  THE  PARAMOUNT SHOP             H. Maxwell
  A FORTUNE AT STAKE              Nat Gould
  THE EURASIAN                    Henry Bruce
  MAZE OF SCILLY                  E. J. Tiddy
  ETELKA                          Stanley Ford
  A SOCIAL INNOCENT               R. St. John Colthurst
  GREEN  GIRL                     Mrs. Henry Tippett
  THE WISDOM OF THE FOOL          By "coronet"
  THE ELUSIVE WIFE                R. Penley
  LOT'S WIFE                      A. M. Judd
  AN OFFICER AND A—               E. D. Henderson
  YOUNG EVE AND OLD ADAM          Tom Gallon
  THE VAUDEVILLIANS               Anonymous
  A HANDFUL OF DAYS               Hal D'arcy
  CROSSROADS                      D. H. Dennis
  LIGHT FINGERS AND DARK EYES     Vincent Collier
  THE MAN IN THE CAR              Alan Raleigh
  THE LURE OF CROONING WATER      Marion Hill
  THE DECOY DUCK                  By a Peer
  LEVITY HICKS                    Tom Gallon
  OUR ALTY                        M. E. Francis
  QUEER LITTLE JANE               Curtis Yorke
  CATCHING A CORONET              Edmund Bosanquet
  THE HOUSE OF THE OTHER WORLD    Violet Tweedale
  THE ONLY PRISON                 Ellen Ada Smith
  A GIRL OF NO IMPORTANCE         Olivia Ramsey
  UNQUENCHED FIRE                 Alice Gerstenberg
  MARY IN THE MARKET              H. Maxwell
  THE IMPENITENT PRAYER           Amy J. Baker
  THE LITTLE  MAISTER             R. H. Forster
  LOVE'S SENTINEL                 Florence Warden
  INCOMPARABLE JOAN               Alice M. Diehl
  THE VISION OF THE YEARS         Curtis Yorke
  HIS AMERICAN WIFE               George H. Jessop
  WEIRD WEDLOCK                   R. Murray Gilchrist
  THIN ICE                        Anne Weaver
  A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE        Charles Löwenthal
                                   (Low Lathen)

THE WORLD'S FAVOURITE AUTHOR

ATHENÆUM, June 10th, 1911, says:—"All living writers are headed by Mr. Nat Gould, and of the great of the past, Dumas only surpasses his popularity."

TRUTH, Jan. 22nd, 1913, says:—"Who is the most popular of living novelists? Mr. Nat Gould easily and indisputably takes the first place."

The Novels of Nat Gould

Sales now exceed NINE MILLION Copies!

NAT GOULD'S NEW 6/- NOVEL

A GAMBLE FOR LOVE

[Ready in April, 1914]

All Mr. Nat Gould's NEW Novels will now be issued at the outset at 6s., Crown 8vo., in handsome Cloth Gilt, over 300 pages, with Wrapper in Three Colours. They will also be issued simultaneously in John Long's Colonial Library at 3s. 6d., Cloth, with Special design, also Wrapper in Three Colours; and 2s. 6d. with Stiff Paper Covers in Three Colours.

RECENTLY PUBLISHED AND UNIFORM WITH THE ABOVE

A FORTUNE AT STAKE

[Third Edition.]

Remarkable success attended the publication of this, Mr. Nat Gould's First Novel to be issued at the outset at 6s. The large First Edition was soon exhausted, and Second and Third Editions have been called for, thus proving that Mr. Nat Gould has a very big following in the Library and Colonial form.

N.B.—Messrs. JOHN LONG are the SOLE Publishers of all Mr. Nat Gould's New Novels and control the output. To ensure a long run with the Library and Colonial Editions they will not publish the 1s. net Edition until at least a year, and the 6d. Edition until over two years, after the publication of the more expensive Edition. But in the meantime there will be the usual periodical 6d. issues of Novels by Mr. Nat Gould that have already appeared at 2s. and 1s.

NAT GOULD'S NOVELS at 1s. and 2s.

Crown 8vo. Paper Cover, three colours, 1s. net; cloth gilt, 2s.

   THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME
   THE KING'S FAVOURITE
   A CAST OFF
  *THE PHANTOM HORSE
  *LEFT IN THE LURCH
  *THE BEST OF THE SEASON
   GOOD AT THE GAME
   A MEMBER OF TATT'S
   THE TRAINER'S TREASURE
   THE HEAD LAD

* Nat Gould's Annual, 1911, '12, '13 respectively.

NAT GOULD'S NOVELS at 6d.

In large demy 8vo., thread sewn. Striking cover in three colours

  #A GREAT COUP January 21st, 1914

  *ONE OF A MOB
  *THE SELLING PLATER
   A BIT OF A ROGUE
  *THE LADY TRAINER
  *A STRAIGHT GOER
  *A HUNDRED TO ONE CHANCE
  *A SPORTING SQUATTER
   THE PET OF THE PUBLIC
  *CHARGER AND CHASER
   THE LOTTERY COLT
   A STROKE OF LUCK
  *THE TOP WEIGHT
  #THE KING'S FAVOURITE April, 1914
  *THE DAPPLE GREY
  *WHIRLWIND'S YEAR
  *THE LITTLE WONDER
   A BIRD IN HAND
  *THE BUCKJUMPER
  *THE JOCKEY'S REVENGE
   THE PICK OF THE STABLE
  #THE STOLEN RACER
  #A RECKLESS OWNER
  #THE ROARER
  #THE LUCKY SHOE
   QUEEN OF THE TURF
  #A CAST OFF July, 1914

* Also at 2s. picture boards, and 2s, 6d. cloth gilt.

# Also at 2s. cloth gilt, and 1s. net paper.

NAT GOULD'S ANNUAL, 1914

THE FLYER

(Twelfth Year)

Cleverly illustrated. Cover in three colours. Paper, thread sewn, 1s. Large demy 8vo.

READY FOR EXPORT END OF AUGUST. ORDER NOW.

THE MAGIC OF SPORT

Being the LIFE STORY OF NAT GOULD, written by himself

With over 50 Illustrations of Notable Sportsmen, Places and Horses and Photogravure Portrait of the Author. Demy 8vo. 370 pages, handsomely bound, Gilt Top. Price 12s. 6d. net. [A few Copies only left

For further List of Nat Gould's Novels see page facing

JOHN LONG'S FAMOUS 1/- NET SERIES

N.B.—All the Volumes in this Series are most attractively bound in three-colour covers, art paper, thread sewn

NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914

LIFE OF MY HEART. By VICTORIA CROSS.

Now first published in 1/- form.

Victoria Cross's immense popularity rests on the fame she achieved with "Anna Lombard" and "Five Nights," and in "Life of My Heart" we have a worthy successor. It is a story of intense passion and dramatic interest.

THE STORY OF MY LIFE. By EVELYN THAW. With 8 portraits of the principal characters. Now first published.

In this remarkable book Evelyn Thaw unbosoms herself to the world, and now for the first time gives her full life history in all its vivid details.

THE LIFE OF LENA. By W. N. WILLIS, ex-M.P.

(Australia), Author of "Why Girls Go Wrong," "The White Slave Market," etc. Now first published.

Few tales within recent years have been so realistic, and the book from its sincerity should appeal to the hearts of all thinking men and women. Mr. W. N. Willis is an author whose books sell in tens of thousands.

SONNICA. By VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ, Author of "Blood and Sand," "The Shadow of the Cathedral," etc.

Now first published.

Vicente Blasco Ibanez is the most brilliant author of the modern school of Spanish fiction, and in this daring novel he is probably seen at his best. In "Sonnica" the publishers believe they have discovered a second "Quo Vadis."

Volumes already published

  THE LIFE SENTENCE                          Victoria Cross
  FIVE NIGHTS                                Victoria Cross
  ANNA LOMBARD                               Victoria Cross
  A WIFE IMPERATIVE                          By a Peer
  THEO                                       By a Peer
  TO JUSTIFY THE MEANS                       By a Peer
  THE HARD WAY                               By a Peer
  THE SPINSTER                               Hubert Wales
  CYNTHIA IN THE WILDERNESS                  Hubert Wales
  MR. AND MRS. VILLIERS                      Hubert Wales
  THE WIFE OF COLONEL HUGHES                 Hubert Wales
  HILARY THORNTON                            Hubert Wales
  A PRIESTESS OF HUMANITY                    Mrs. Stanley Wrench
  A PERFECT PASSION                          Mrs. Stanley Wrench
  BURNT WINGS                                Mrs. Stanley Wrench
  LOVE'S FOOL                                Mrs. Stanley Wrench
  FOLLY'S GATE                               James Blyth
  A COMPLEX LOVE AFFAIR                      James Blyth
  THE MEMBER FOR EASTERBY                    James Blyth
  THORA'S CONVERSION                         James Blyth
  THE PENALTY                                James Blyth
  AMAZEMENT                                  James Blyth
  RUBINA                                     James Blyth
  CHICANE                                    Oliver Sandys
  THE WOMAN IN THE FIRELIGHT                 Oliver Sandys
  DECREE                                     Lady X
  THE DIARY OF MY HONEYMOON                  Lady X
  THE STORM OF LONDON                        F. Dickberry
  A SOCIETY MOTHER                           Edmund Bosanquet
  I TOO HAVE KNOWN                           Amy J. Baker
  THE DUPLICATE DEATH                        A. C. Fox-Davies
  A HOUSEHOLD                                Jerrard Syrett
  CONFESSIONS OF CLEODORA                    Carlton Dawe
  SECRET HISTORY OF THE COURT OF BERLIN      Henry W. Fischer
  MIGHTY MAYFAIR                             "Coronet"
  CONFESSIONS OF A PRINCESS                  Anonymous
  IMPROPER PRUE                              Anonymous
  THE PRICE OF POSSESSION                    Author of "Improper Prue"
  THE PROGRESS OF PAULINE KESSLER            Author of "The Adventures of John Johns"

JOHN LONG'S 1/- NET (CLOTH) NOVELS

Crown 8vo. Cloth gilt. Wrappers in three colours

NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914

  THE LURE OF CROONING WATER                 Marion Hill
  OFF THE MAIN ROAD                          Victor L. Whitechurch
  THE STORM-DOG                              Lilian Arnold
  THE REALIST                                E. Temple Thurston

Volumes already published

  THE GREAT GAY ROAD                         Tom Gallon
  HIS MASTER PURPOSE                         Harold Bindloss
  THE MASK                                   William Le Queux
  FOR FAITH AND NAVARRE                      May Wynne
  KISSING CUP THE SECOND                     Campbell Rae-Brown
  THE GREAT NEWMARKET MYSTERY                Campbell Rae-Brown
  A JILT'S JOURNAL                           Rita
  ADA VERNHAM—ACTRESS                        Richard Marsh
  SWEET "DOLL" OF HADDON HALL                J. E. Muddock
  THE OLD ALLEGIANCE                         Hubert Wales

JOHN LONG'S 7d. NET (CLOTH) NOVELS

A New Series of copyright Novels which, in more expensive form, have achieved marked success. They are printed in clear type, newly set, on good paper, tastefully bound in Red Cloth, full gilt back, with attractive pictorial wrapper in three colours. Each volume has a decorative title-page with frontispiece, both on Art paper.

NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914

  19 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA (2nd Feb.)        Guy Boothby
  33 THE GOLD RAIL (2nd Feb.)               Harold Bindloss
  23 THE GRASS  WIDOW (2nd Mar.)            Dorothea Gerard
  25 THE GIRL IN GREY (2nd Mar.)            Curtis Yorke
  24 THRICE ARMED (1st Apr.)                Harold Bindloss
  38 OUR ALTY (1st Apr.)                    M. E. Francis
  34 MOLLIE DEVERILL (4th May)              Curtis Yorke
  39 MEMORY CORNER (4th May)                Tom Gallon
  35 A GLORIOUS LIE (25th May)              Dorothea Gerard
  40 THE BARTENSTEIN CASE (25th May)        J. S. Fletcher
  36 ALTON OF SOMASCO (22nd June)           Harold Bindloss
  37 IRRESPONSIBLE KITTY (22nd June)        Curtis Yorke

VOLUMES NOW READY

   1 FATHER ANTHONY                         Robert Buchanan
   2 DELILAH OF THE SNOWS                   Harold Bindloss
   3 ONLY BETTY                             Curtis Yorke
   4 THE GARDEN OF MYSTERY                  Richard Marsh
   5 IN SPITE OF THE CZAR                   Guy Boothby
   6 THE VEILED MAN                         William le Queux
   7 THE SIN OF JASPER STANDISH             Rita
   8 A BORDER SCOURGE                       Bertram Mitford
   9 WAYWARD ANNE                           Curtis Yorke
  10 THE GREATER POWER                      Harold Bindloss
  11 A CABINET SECRET                       Guy Boothby
  12 THE EYE OF ISTAR                       William le Queux
  13 A WOMAN PERFECTED                      Richard Marsh
  14 HYPOCRITES AND SINNERS                 Violet Tweedale
  15 THE SILENT HOUSE                       Fergus Hume
  16 BY RIGHT OF PURCHASE                   Harold Bindloss
  17 THE OTHER SARA                         Curtis Yorke
  18 LITTLE JOSEPHINE                       L.T. Meade
  20 THE MAGNETIC GIRL                      Richard Marsh
  21 THE MATHESON MONEY                     Florence Warden
  22 CRIMSON LILIES                         May Crommelin
  26 THE LADY OF THE ISLAND                 Guy Boothby
  27 THE WHITE HAND AND THE BLACK           Bertram Mitford
  28 THE STOLEN EMPEROR                     Mrs. Hugh Fraser
  29 A MAN OF TO-DAY                        Helen Mathers
  30 THE PENNILESS MILLIONAIRE              David C. Murray
  31 LINKS IN THE CHAIN                     Headon Hill
  32 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR                   Maxwell Gray

JOHN LONG'S NEW 6d. (PAPER) NOVELS

The new, up-to-date Cover Designs by leading Artists, printed in three colours on Art paper, are the most effective that have ever adorned a Sixpenny Series. This, combined with the established popularity of the authors, will ensure for JOHN LONG'S 6d. (Paper) Novels first place in the public esteem. Good paper, clear type. Thread sewn. Size 9 inches by 6.

Volumes for 1914

  1.  SOMETHING IN THE CITY              Florence Warden
  2.  THE TURNPIKE HOUSE                 Fergus Hume
  3.  MIDSUMMER MADNESS                  Mrs. Lovett Cameron
  4.  MRS. MUSGRAVE AND HER HUSBAND      Richard Marsh
  5.  THE SIN OF HAGAR                   Helen Mathers
  6.  DELPHINE                           Curtis Yorke
  7.  TRAITOR AND TRUE                   John Bloundelle-burton
  8.  THE OTHER MRS. JACOBS              Mrs. Campbell Praed
  9.  THE COUNTESS OF MOUNTENOY          John Strange Winter
10.  THE WOOING OF MONICA               L. T. Meade
11.  THE WORLD MASTERS                  George Griffith
12.  HIS ITALIAN WIFE                   Lucas Cleeve
13.  No. 3, THE SQUARE                  Florence Warden
14.  MISS ARNOTT'S MARRIAGE             Richard Marsh
15.  THE THREE DAYS' TERROR             J. S. Fletcher
16.  THE JUGGLER AND THE SOUL           Helen Mathers
17.  THE HARVEST OF LOVE                C. Ranger Gull
18.  BITTER FRUIT                       Mrs. Lovett Cameron
19.  BENEATH THE VEIL                   Adeline Sergeant
20.  THE BRANGWYN MYSTERY               David Christie Murray
21.  FUGITIVE ANNE                      Mrs. Campbell Praed
22.  IN SUMMER SHADE                    Mary E. Mann
23.  A JILT'S JOURNAL                   Rita
24.  THE SCARLET SEAL                   Dick Donovan

N.B.—The first Eight will be published March 16th. There will then be an interval of one month, when, commencing April 20th, the volumes will appear fortnightly, two at a time, until July 27th.

GENERAL LITERATURE

OSCAR WILDE AND MYSELF. By Lord Alfred Douglas. With rare Portraits and Illustrations. Demy 8vo. Price 10s. 6d. net.

Some of Oscar Wilde's biographers are persons who had only a nodding acquaintance with him, and others had no acquaintance at all. But in their writings there is one name which is linked with Wilde's and is second only in importance to it—the name of Lord Alfred Douglas. After long years Lord Alfred has decided to break the silence and to give the real facts about his relations with Wilde from the period when Wilde was at the top of his fame to the time of his tragedy and death. "Oscar Wilde and Myself" contains a serious side inasmuch as it deals with the grave disasters which this friendship has brought upon Lord Alfred. It possesses another side in the analysis of the purely literary aspect of Wilde's work; and a large number of anecdotes and sayings of Wilde are included which have never before been printed. It gives also an account of the Wilde circle, which included the most prominent persons of the period. Of Lord Alfred Douglas's literary gifts his worst enemy is in no doubt, and this work, apart from its great personal import, will give the quietus to much that is false which has grown round the Oscar Wilde tradition.

BELGIUM, HER KINGS, KINGDOM, AND PEOPLE. By John de Courcy Macdonnell. Fully illustrated. Demy 8vo. Price 15s. net.

The lives of Leopold I., Leopold II., and King Albert told with a wealth of intimate detail which up till now has been withheld, the true story of the Belgian Revolution, untold by any English writer ere this, and much that is new and interesting about all the leading people in Belgium, from Royalties to Anarchists. The author describes the Belgian people, their mode of living, their thrift, their industry—the country itself, the forests, the mining districts, the crowded cities—and throws fresh light on many aspects of Belgian politics.

THE BONDS OF AFRICA. By Owen Letcher, F.R.G.S., Author of "Big Game Hunting in North-Eastern Rhodesia." With 50 Illustrations from Photographs and a Map. Demy 8vo. Price 12s. 6d. net.

Mr. Owen Letcher is a young Englishman who has spent the past eleven years in Africa and has wandered into well-nigh unknown portions of the Dark Continent to hunt big game and to pry into the lives of the natives inhabitant of the remotest corners of it. Quite apart from its value to the traveller, the sportsman, and the student of natural history, the book possesses a remarkable human interest. Mr. Letcher knows Africa from Cape Town to the City of the Pharaohs, and, as the work covers an enormous field of but little known land in Southern, North-Western and North-Eastern Rhodesia, Nyasaland, British East Africa, and Uganda, its merits from a geographical point of view are undoubted.

MADAME DU BARRY. By Edmond and Jules de Goncourt. With Photogravure and numerous other Portraits. Demy 8vo. Price 12s. 6d. net.

One of the most marvellously minute and realistic specimens of biography to be found. No pains have been spared to obtain all the information available with reference to the extraordinary woman who, born out of wedlock in the little French town of Vaucouleurs, became the mistress of Louis XV., and after a career of reckless extravagance, perished on the guillotine.

STORIES OF SOCIETY. By Charles E. Jerningham ("Marmaduke" of Truth). With numerous Portraits. Demy 8vo. Price 10s. 6d. net.

In his life spent amongst the clubs and the drawing-rooms of Mayfair the author (for more than twenty years "Marmaduke" of Truth) has become familiar with the skeletons lurking in the cupboards of Society, and there is no writer of to-day who is more fully or happily equipped to fulfil the function of a social satirist.

THE PURPOSE: Reflections and Digressions. By Hubert Wales. With Portrait. Crown 8vo. Price 5s. net.

Mr. Hubert Wales' object in this book is to discuss serious subjects in a style and within a compass compatible with modern exigencies and habits. No longer the hidden operator pulling the strings that move his puppets, he draws aside the curtain, appears in his own person, and talks familiarly with his readers upon such absorbing and vital topics as Life and Death, Ethics, Sex and Beauty.

HOUNDS. By Frank Townend Barton, M.R.C.V.S. With 37 Illustrations from Photographs. Crown 8vo. Price 5s. net.

An entirely new and original work dealing with the most important varieties of hounds. Each variety is exhaustively dealt with, not only in relation to the conformation, but in matters appertaining to feeding, breeding, rearing, showing, health and sport, etc., etc.

ARTEGAL: a Drama; Poems and Ballads. By B. C. Hardy, Author of "Philippa of Hainault and Her Times," "The Princesse de Lamballe," etc. Crown 8vo. Price 3s. 6d. net.

BEQUEATHED MID-OCEAN. By Blanche Adelaide Brock, Author of "Fire Fantasies," etc. Crown 8vo. Price 3s, 6d. net. A Story in Verse.

GOLF FOR THE LATE BEGINNER. By Henry Hughes (One of Them). With Thirty-two Illustrations from Photographs specially taken for the Work. Fcap. 8vo. Price 1s. net. Third and Revised Edition.

World of Golf says: "Every stroke and club are carefully explained. An excellent shillingsworth."

RECENTLY PUBLISHED

EUGÈNE DE BEAUHARNAIS: the Adopted Son of Napoleon. By Violette M. Montagu, Author of "Sophie Dawes, Queen of Chantilly," "The Scottish College in Paris," etc. With 24 Portraits and Illustrations. Demy 8vo. Price 15s. net.

ROBESPIERRE AND THE WOMEN HE LOVED. By Hector Fleischmann, English Version by Dr. A.S. Rappoport. With Photogravure and 19 other Portraits. Demy 8vo. Price 13s. 6d. net.

ROSE BERTIN: the Creator of Fashion at the Court of Marie Antoinette. By Émile Langlade. English Version by Dr. A. S. Rappoport. With Photogravure and 24 Portraits. Demy 8vo. Price 12s. 6d. net.

BOHEMIAN DAYS IN FLEET STREET. By a Journalist. Demy 8vo. Price 10s. 6d. net.

TRAVELS IN THE PYRENEES: including Andorra and the Coast from Barcelona to Carcassonne. By V. C. Scott O'Connor, Author of "The Silken East," "Mandalay," etc. With 4 Illustrations in colour, 158 other Illustrations, and a Map. Demy 8vo. Price 10s. 6d. net.

GUN DOGS. By Frank Townend Barton, M.R.C.V.S., Author of "Terriers: Their Points and Management." With 46 Illustrations from Photographs. Crown 8vo. Price 5s. net.

HOME EXERCISE AND HEALTH: Five Minutes' Care to the Nerves. The Rational System of Exercising for Health rather than mere Strength. By Percival G. Masters, B.A. Cantab. With 32 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. Price 2s. 6d. net. A System of Exercises devised to promote health, and not muscle development only. It particularly aims at building up the nervous system. [Second and Revised Edition.]

ENGINEERING AS A PROFESSION. By A. P. M. Fleming, M.I.E.E., and R. W. Bailey, Wh.Sc. Crown 8vo. Price 2s. 6d. net.

"Gives a general outline of the field of engineering activity, and sets forth the present facilities for obtaining satisfactory training and employment, with conditions of entry to the leading engineering institutions."—The Times.

JOHN LONG, Ltd., 12, 13 & 14, Norris St., Haymarket, London

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LTD.

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