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