MARRIED LIFE

Or

The True Romance

by

MAY EDGINTON

BostonSmall, Maynard & CompanyPublishers

1920

IN ADMIRATIONTOA COMPLETELY SUCCESSFULHUSBAND

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

 I ANTICIPATION

 II IRREVOCABLE

 III BEAUTIFUL

 IV DREAMS

 V HOUSEKEEPING

 VI DISCIPLINE

 VII DISILLUSION

 VIII BABY

 IX PROBLEMS

 X RECRIMINATION

 XI THE BANGED DOOR

 XII BEHIND THE VEIL

 XIII "THE VERY DEVIL"

 XIV DRIFTING

 XV SURRENDER

 XVI ISOLATION

 XVII REVIVAL

XVIII INTRIGUE

 XIX ANOTHER WOOING

 XX SEPARATION

 XXI HOME-COMING

 XXII PLAIN DEALING

XXIII INDIFFERENCE

 XXIV FOOL'S CAP

 XXV RECOMPENSE

 XXVI COMPREHENSION

CHAPTER I

ANTICIPATION

"I've been round all the sales, " said Marie, "hunting and hunting. Myfeet are tired! But I've got a lovely lot of things. Look! All thiswashing ribbon, a penny a yard. And these caps--aren't they the lastword? Julia, aren't they ducks? I thought I'd have my little caps allalike, flesh-pink tulle. "

"When'll you wear them?" asked Julia hardily. 

"When do other people wear them?" retorted Marie, rather confused. 

"Have you ever worn things like this?"

"Well, " said Marie, "perhaps not. But I've been saving up two years forit, haven't I? And if a girl can't have pretty things in her trousseau, when can she have them?"

Julia sighed and looked. There was a little clutch at her heart, butshe went on sturdily:

"All you girls going to be married! I don't know what you expect! Iknow what you'll get. You seem to think a husband's a cross betweenRomeo and a fairy godmother. Well, you'll find it's different. You allimagine, when you say good-bye to your typewriter, or the showroom, orwhatever line you're in, to marry on an income not so very much biggerthan your own, that you're going to live in a palace and be waited uponever afterwards. You'll have to get up early and cook Osborn'sbreakfast, shan't you, before he goes out? And make the beds and sweepand dust? And you're buying pink tulle caps as if you were going tobreakfast in bed every day!"

"A little housework's nothing! A girl can wear pretty things when she'smarried, I suppose?"

"Oh, she _can_. "

"She ought to. A man has a right to expect--"

"You'll find a man expects everything he has a right to, and a hundredper cent. More. "

"Osborn is very different from most men. "

Julia smiled, stood up, and pressed her hands over her hips to settleher skirt smoothly; she had an air of abandoning the talk as useless. Her eyes were tired and her mouth drooped. 

"It isn't as though you knew such a great deal about men, dear, " Marieadded. 

"I don't want to, " said Julia. 

"Surely, you must like Osborn?"

"What does it matter whether I do or don't, since you do?"

"I can't think how anyone can fail to like Osborn. "

"Of course you can't. "

"Even you must own he's the best-tempered boy living. "

"I shan't own anything of the kind till you've been married threemonths, and he's had some bad dinners, and late breakfasts, and has gota bit sick of the butcher's bill. Then we'll see. "

"Little things like these can't matter between people who really loveeach other. You don't understand. "

"It's just these little things that take the edge off. "

Marie's mother looked in and smiled to see her girl fingering herpretty things. 

"Aren't you two nearly ready to leave the inspection and come to tea?"

"Julia doesn't like my caps, mum. "

"Yes, I do, " said Julia; "all I'm asking, Mrs. Amber, is, when is shegoing to wear them?"

Marie's mother came in and sat down and thought. 

"Ah, " she said, shaking her head and looking pinched about the lips, "I don't know. You modern girls buy all these extraordinary things. You ape rich women; but you'll never be able to pay the everlastingcleaners' bills for those caps. "

"She'll soon give up wearing them, Mrs. Amber. "

"I'm sure I shan't, " Marie denied. 

"When I was a girl, " said Mrs. Amber, smoothing her lap reminiscently, "I remember I wanted a grand trousseau. But girls lived at home more inthose days; they didn't go out typing and what not, earning money forthemselves. So I couldn't buy what I wanted and my dear mother had toomuch sense to buy it for me. I had strong, useful things, twelve ofeverything, and they've lasted to this day. However, Marie thinksdifferently and she has earned the money to act differently, so let herbe happy in her own way while she can. "

"Won't she be happy when she's married?" Julia asked, while Marieangrily hid her treasures away in tissue paper. 

"I hope so, " said Mrs. Amber; "I'm sure I hope so. But things are allso different when you're married. You girls had better come to tea. "

Julia linked her arm strongly in Marie's as they followed the elderlywoman out. "Marie, love, " she whispered, "I'm a grouser. You know Iwish you all the luck in the world and more. You know I do?"

"I have it, " said Marie, smiling. "And I hope you'll have it, too, before long. "

On the sitting-room table tea was spread; the room was red in thefirelight; and the flat was so high up in the block that the streetnoises scarcely ascended to it. The girls sat down on the hearthrug, and Mrs. Amber seated herself before her tea tray and flicked away atear. 

"A week to-day, " she said, "I shall be the loneliest old thing inLondon. I shall be all by myself in this flat when Marie's gone. "

There were five cups and saucers on the tray, and in a moment thedoor-bell rang, and Marie sprang up to answer it. "That's Osborn!" shecried in a flutter. 

She returned demurely between two young men, one of them holding herhand captive. 

Osborn had brought his friend Desmond Rokeby to talk over details ofthe great event next week. He kissed Mrs. Amber on the cheek, andturned to Julia with a certain diffidence. "Miss Winter, " he said, witha nervous laugh, "I've brought Rokeby. You've met him? Rokeby, MissWinter's going to be Marie's bridesmaid, you know, and you're going tobe mine, so. . . . "

The little joke was received with laughter by Mrs. Amber, Marie andDesmond; Julia only smiled and Rokeby thought, "What a dour youngfemale! What a cold douche! What a perishing mistake!"

He sat down beside her on the chesterfield; the couch was small andJulia, close beside him, cold and hard as a rock. He turned from aglance at her profile to contemplate the bride-elect, and saw in herall that the modern young man wishes to find in a girl, the sparkle ofspirit, yet the feminine softness; a frou-frou of temperament as wellas of frills; a face of childlike clarity set with two gay eyes; hairdressed to tempt and cajole; a little figure of thin frailty that gaveher a beautiful delicacy of appearance; little, modish, manicuredhands. 

She had such pretty arts; she fluttered about small domestic dutieswith a delight dainty to see. She set a man imagining how desirable itwould be to build a nest for this delicate dear bird, and take her toit, and live deliciously ever afterwards. This is what Osborn Kerrimagined while--like Rokeby--he watched her. He had never seen herother than pretty and dainty, than happy and gay; he could not conceiveof her otherwise. He had not the faintest doubt of being able to keepher so, in that nest which he had built for two on the other side oftown. Whenever it was possible, in the teacup passing, he tried totouch her hand; he longed for her to look at him; he wanted her all tohimself. 

A week seemed over-long to wait. 

Mrs. Amber watched him with a resigned and kindly eye. She was sighinga little, kindly and resignedly, in her mind, and thinking how alikemen were in their courting. And presently, while Julia and Desmondconversed with a formal hostility on the chesterfield, and the loverssnatched brief moments for communication in lovers' code, she said:

"Osborn, another present came to-day; it's in the dining-room; Marieought to show it to you. "

"Will you, Marie?" asked the young man, while his heart leapt, and thepulses in his head seemed singing like larks on a summer morning. 

"Would you care to see it?" she replied, with a studied sedatenesswhich Osborn found unutterably sweet, and which did not in the leastdeceive the watching mother. 

And in a moment the two were alone, it seemed in another world. Thisnew world was compassed by the walls of the slip of an apartment calledthe dining-room, but which was kitchen as well, for there were no maidsin the flat. The top of the oak dresser had been cleared of its bits ofblue china and pewter to make way for the array of wedding gifts, andthey were presented bravely. Perhaps among the display was the lastreceived of which Mrs. Amber spoke, but whether it was, or was not, neither Marie nor Osborn cared. 

They were alone. 

There had pressed upon them, hard and perpetually, during the eighteenmonths of their engagement, the many difficulties with whichopportunity is cautiously guarded by its custodians. They met inrestaurants, in parks, and in the homes of either, and seldom couldthey be alone; and because they were superior people, not of the classwhich loves unashamedly in the public places if it has nowhere else tolove, they restrained themselves. It was a long and hard probation, lightened sometimes, some rare and precious times, by such moments asnow occurred. As soon as the kitchen-dining-room door closed behindthem like the portals of sanctuary, Osborn held out his arms and Mariewent to them. She rested there while Osborn kissed her with hard, devouring kisses which made her murmur little pleased protests. 

All the while she was thinking, "A week to-day!" Her eyes travelled tothe clock. "At six o'clock, a week this afternoon, I shall be Mrs. Kerr. We shall be at the hotel, unpacking. "

"Not very long now, " said Osborn between his kisses. "Soon we'll bealone as much as we like. We'll be able to shut our own door oneverybody. Won't it be priceless?"

Marie thought it would. She fingered his coat lapels with her modishhands, and smiled with downcast eyelashes. In happy procession herdreams paraded by. She flitted a glance up at Osborn's face for amoment and looked down again. He was good-looking; he was thebest-looking man she knew; his clothes were so good; his voice was socharming; he had no mean streak like some men; he was all gold. He wasgenerous. Even while he had been spending all his bank balance, andmore, on that nest for her at the other side of town, it had beendelightful to be taken out by him to the nicest restaurants, hear chicdinners and good wines ordered with a thrilling lavishness. Many girlsmust envy her. 

"A lot of fellows will envy me, " Osborn murmured even while Mariethought her thoughts. 

She protested again with soft words and the procession of dreams wentby. The little home--how charming it would be! The chintz that matchedher two best trousseau frocks, the solidity and polish of herdining-room chairs, the white paint and pale spring colours of hersitting-room, how ravishing it all was! The conveniences of thekitchen, the latest household apparatus, would they not make thekeeping of the perfect flat a sort of toy occupation for a prettygirl's few serious moments? In spite of Julia, all would be easy andsweet. In a kimono and one of those pink caps one could cook abreakfast without soiling one's fingers. Osborn would like to see hiswife look beautiful behind the coffeepot. She would manage splendidly. The income, of course, would seem small to some women, muddleheads, butshe _could_ manage. She could make the most darling clothes, bakecakes like a confectioner's. Osborn would be surprised. 

She must have a pink pinafore, a smocked one. 

What would it be like, the first few days together?

"Come and sit down, " Osborn begged, and he drew her to the one bigchair, into which they both squeezed. "I love you, " he said, "oh, I_do_ love you! And we can trust old Rokeby to look after yourmother and Julia. What a terror the girl is!"

"She hates men, " said Marie, with a pouting mouth. 

"Then they will hate her and I don't wonder, " the young man repliedscornfully. 

"Don't let us talk about Julia. "

"No, let's talk about us. I bought the clock, darling. "

"The clock! Did they knock down the price?"

"No, they didn't, " said Osborn, "but you wanted it and that was goodenough for me. "

Her eyes sparkled. "You shouldn't be extravagant on my account. "

"Let me kiss you, " said Osborn, "that's all I want. You liked the oldclock, and it will look ripping in the hall, won't it?"

"We shall be _all_ oak now. "

"Say you're pleased, then, you beautiful. "

"I am. I did want that clock. A grandfather clock--I don'tknow--there's something about it. "

"As for the price, sweetheart, why bother? It'll only add a few moreinstalments to the whole bally lump. It will be all right. I'll get arise soon--married man, you know! Responsibilities, you know!Expenses!"

"Mother's starting us with every kind of saucepan and broom and brushyou can think of. "

"Bless her!"

"Osborn, it will be an awf'ly _smart_ flat. "

"It will, with you in it. "

"No, but really. Everyone will admire it. I mean everyone to admire. We'll have some little dinner-parties, won't we?"

"Will we, Cook?"

"I shall make the sweets beforehand, and we'll have chafing-dish orcasserole things. That sort of dinner. It's quite smart, Osborn. Anddessert's easy. Julia's giving us finger bowls, tip-top ones--realcut-glass. "

"Bless her!"

"We're starting awf'ly well, Osborn. "

"Do you think I don't know that? We love each other; nothing ever goeswrong when people love each other. You'll be glad enough to give up theoffice, too, won't you?"

"_Won't I!_"

"I know you will. I hate to have you in a City office, with any bounderstaring at you. When you're Mrs. Kerr only I can stare. "

"I like your confidence!"

"But I shall make up for everyone. I shall stare all the time. "

"Shall you want to go to the club every evening?"

"I shan't ever want to go to the club. "

Although Marie had known what the answer would be--or she would nothave asked the question--it made her very happy. It was delightful tohear only what one wanted to hear; to see only what one wanted to see. Life appeared as a graceful spectacle, a sort of orderly carnivalrefined to taste. There would, of course, be the big thrill init--Osborn. It would be wonderful to have him coming home to hersuccessful little dinners every evening. People didn't want a greatdeal, after all; all the discontented, puling, peevish, wanting peopleone met must be great fools; they had made their beds and made themwrong; the great thing, the simple secret, was to make them right. Ahusband and wife must pull together, in everything. Pulling togetherwould be sheer joy. 

"Osborn, " she said, "how well we understand each other, don't we?"

"I should think we do, " whispered the young man. 

"Few married people seem really happy. "

"They must manage life badly, mustn't they?"

"I remember mother and father; mother likes the idea of my gettingmarried, but they used often to be nagging about something. Expenses, Ithink. "

"All that I have will be yours, you love, " said Osborn, with profoundtenderness. 

"But I shan't ask for it, " said Marie, with a flash of intuition. "Youdon't know how careful I can be. It won't cost you much more than itdoes now; less, perhaps, because you won't always be dining at theclub. "

"But you'll come into town and lunch with me very often, shan't you, dearest?"

"Nearly every day. "

"Hush!"

Osborn got out of the chair and sat on its arm; Marie remained alone inthe cushioned depths, looking flushed and brilliant; and Mrs. Ambercame in slowly. 

"Marie, I want to show Julia your dress; or would you like to show ityourself?"

"Is it _the_ dress?" Osborn asked, looking down on the top ofMarie's shining head. 

Mrs. Amber sighed and smiled and the bride-elect sat up, sparkling. 

"I'll come, mother. "

"Let me come, too, " said Osborn. 

"I'll bring it into the sitting-room and let everyone see it, shall I, Marie?" her mother asked hastily. 

She hurried away and Marie followed her to the bedroom, while Osbornstood in the doorway, looking in at the two eager women about theirjoyous errand. He put his hands in his pockets and smiled. It waspleasant to be involved in the bustle about the precious thing theywere unwrapping from swathes of tissue paper. "Be careful, dear, " theelder woman kept saying, "there's a pin here. " Or "Don't hurry, oryou'll have the pleats out of place. " And Marie's hands trembled overtheir task. When all the paper was removed, Mrs. Amber saidimportantly, "Now just lift it up; give it to me like that; I'll carryit in, " but Marie cried: "No, I will, " and she threw the gown over hershoulder till her head emerged as from the froth of sea waves, and raninto the sitting-room with it. 

Mrs. Amber's eyes were moist with pride. "It's a beautiful dress, " shesaid to Osborn, who had turned eagerly after his girl; "I want her tolook sweet. Here, wouldn't you like to take something? Here's theshoes; I've got the stockings. Wouldn't you like to carry the shoes?"

Marie was spreading out the gown on the chesterfield from which Juliaand Desmond had risen to make room for it. Mrs. Amber laid the silkstockings reverently near and Osborn dangled his burden, saying gaily:"And here are Mrs. Kerr's slippers. "

Rokeby stood back, observing. "It's all out of my line, " he said, "butdon't think I'm not respectful; I am. What's more, I'm fairly dazzled. I think I'll have to get married. "

"You might do worse, old man, " replied Osborn joyfully. 

Rokeby lighted another cigarette. He looked around the room and at thepeople in it. He had been familiar with many such interiors andsituations, being the kind of man who officiated at weddings but neverin the principal part. "Poor old Osborn!" he thought. "Another good mandown and out!" He looked at the girl, decked by Art and Nature for hernatural conquest. He did not wonder how long her radiance would endure;he thought he knew. He entertained himself by tracing the likeness toher mother, and the mother's slimness had thickened, and her shouldersrounded; her eyes were tired, a little dour; they looked out withoutenthusiasm at the world, except when they rested upon her daughter. Then they became rather like the eyes of Marie looking at her weddinggown. 

 * * * * *

Osborn took Marie's head between his hands, and kissed her eyes andmouth. "That's for good night, " he whispered; "Rokeby and I are goinghome. You are the sweetest thing, and I shall dream of you all night. Promise to dream of me. "

"It's a certainty. "

"It is?" said the young man rapturously. "I am simply _too_ happy, then. "

"Let's go and look at the flat to-morrow. "

"Have tea with me in town, darling, and I'll take you. "

Mrs. Amber and Rokeby came out into the hall. Rokeby wore a verypatient air, and Marie's mother beamed with that soft and sorrowfulpleasure which women have for such circumstances. 

"Now say good night, " said she softly, "say good night. Good-bye, Mr. Rokeby, and we shall see you again a week to-day?"

"A week to-day. "

The two men went out and down the stairs into the street. Rokeby hadhis air of good-humoured and invincible patience and Osborn dreamed. 

"I'll see you right home, " said Rokeby. 

"And you'll come in, and have a drink. "

"Thanks. Perhaps I will. Haven't _you_ got a trousseau to showme?"

"Get out, you fool!"

"What do chaps feel like, I wonder, " said Rokeby, "when the day ofjudgment is so near?"

"I shan't tell you, you damned scoffer!"

"Well, well, " said Rokeby, "I've seen lots of nice fellows go underthis same way. It always makes me very sorry. I do all I can in the wayof preventive measures, but it's never any good, and there's no cure. Ab-so-lutely none. There's no real luck in the business, either, as faras I've seen, though of course some are luckier than others. "

"Did you mention luck?" Osborn exclaimed, from his dream. "Don't youthink I'm lucky? I say, Desmond, old thing, don't you think I'm one ofthe most astonishingly lucky fellows on God's earth?"

"You ought to know. "

"Oh, come off that silly pedestal of pretence. Cynicism's rotten. Marriage is the only life. "

"'Never for me!'" Rokeby quoted Julia. 

"Awful girl!" said Osborn, referring to her briefly. "'Orrid female. What?"

"Very handsome, " said Rokeby. 

"Handsome! I've never seen it. She's not to be compared to Marie, anyway. You haven't answered my question. Don't you think I'm lucky?"

"Yes, you are, " replied Rokeby sincerely, turning to look at him, "forany man to be as happy as you seem to be even for five minutes is agreat big slice of luck to be remembered. "

"Marie's a wonderful girl. She can do absolutely anything, I believe. It seems incredible that a girl with hands like hers can cook and sew, but she can. Isn't it a wonder?"

"It sounds ripping. "

They walked on in silence, Osborn back up in his clouds. At last heawaked to say:

"Well, here we are. You'll come in?"

"Shall I?"

"Do. I shan't have so many more evenings of--"

"Freedom--"

"--Of loneliness, confound you! Come in!"

Rokeby followed him into his rooms, on the second floor. A good firewas burning, but they were just bachelor rooms full of hired--andcheap--furniture. As Osborn cast off his overcoat and took Rokeby's, heglanced around expressively. 

"You should see the flat. You _will_ see it soon. All Marie'sarrangement, and absolutely charming. "

"Thanks awfully. I'll be your first caller. "

"Well, don't forget it. What'll you have?"

"Whiskey, please. "

"So'll I. "

Osborn gave Desmond one of the two armchairs by the fire, and took theother himself. Another silence fell, during which Rokeby saw Osbornsmiling secretly and involuntarily to himself as he had seen other mensmile. The man was uplifted; his mind soared in heaven, while his bodydwelt in a hired plush chair in the sitting-room of furnished lodgings. Rokeby took his drink, contented not to interrupt; he watched Osborn, and saw the light play over his face, and the thoughts full of beautycome and go. At length, following the direction of some thought, againit was Osborn who broke the mutual quiet, exclaiming:

"I've never shown you her latest portrait!"

"Let's look. I'd love to. "

The lover rose, opened the drawer of a writing-table, and took out aphotograph, a very modern affair, of most artistic mounting. He handedit jealously to Desmond and was silent while the other man looked. Thegirl's face, wondrously young and untroubled, frail, angelic, rose froma slender neck and shoulders swathed in a light gauze cloud. Her gayeyes gazed straight out. Rokeby looked longer than he knew, verythoughtfully, and Osborn put his hand upon the portrait, pulled it awayas jealously as he had given it, and said:

"They've almost done her justice for once. "

"Top-hole, old man, " Rokeby replied sympathetically. 

CHAPTER II

IRREVOCABLE

When Osborn dressed for his wedding he felt in what he calledfirst-class form. He thought great things of life; life had beenamazingly decent to him throughout. It had never struck him anyuntoward blow. The death of his parents had been sadness, certainly, but it was a natural calamity, the kind every sane man expected sooneror later and braced himself for. His mother had left him a very littlemoney, and his father had left him a very little money; small as thesum total was, it gave a man the comfortable impression of havingprivate means. He paid the first instalments on the dream-flat'sfurniture with it, and there was some left still, to take Marie andhim away on a fine honey-moon, and to brighten their first year withmany jollities. His salary was all right for a fellow of his age. Marie was not far wrong when she said that they were starting "awfullywell. "

Osborn sang:

 "And--when--I--tell--them, And I'm certainly going to tell them, That I'm the man whose wife you're one day going to be, They'll never believe me--"

That latest thing in revue songs fitted the case to a fraction. He wasthe luckiest man in the whole great round world. 

Osborn was pleased with his reflection in the glass. For his weddinghe had bought his first morning-coat and silk hat. He had been asexcited as a girl. He had a new dress-suit, too, and a dinner-jacketfrom the best tailor in town, ready packed for travelling. He had beenfinicking over his coloured shirts, handkerchiefs, and socks; a set ofmauve, a set of blue, a set of grey; the brown set with the stripedshirt; they were all awf'ly smart. Marie was so dainty, she liked aman to be smart, too. All he wanted was to please her. 

Rokeby came early, as quiet and lacklustre as ever. He sat down in theobvious lodging-house bedroom, lighted a cigarette and looked atOsborn without a smile. He prepared himself to be bored and amazed;weddings, tiresome as they were, always amazed him. And he wasprepared, too, for a settled insanity in Osborn until--

"I wonder how long _he'll_ be?" Rokeby thought. 

"I've finished packing, " said Osborn, clapping his old brushestogether; the new ones lay among the new suits. "It's time we started, almost, isn't it?"

"Not by an hour, " Rokeby answered, consulting a wrist watch. "Have youbreakfasted?"

"Not yet. "

"You'd better, hadn't you?"

Osborn was concerned with the set of the new coat over his fineshoulders. 

"Breakfast was on the table when I came through, " added Rokeby. 

"Was it?" replied Osborn absently. 

Rokeby took his friend's arm, piloted him with patient firmness intothe sitting-room, and pulled out a chair. 

Osborn ate and drank spasmodically. Between the spasms he hummed underhis breath:

 "And--when--I--tell--them, And I'm certainly going to tell them, That I'm the man whose wife you're one day going to be, They'll never believe me--"

Rokeby smoked several cigarettes. 

"How long'll it take us to get to the church?" Osborn asked presently, with his eye on the clock. 

"Ten minutes, about. We'll walk. "

"Desmond, I say, I wouldn't like to be late. "

"I'll look after that. I've escorted a good many fellows to thetumbril. "

"Desmond, that nonsense of yours gets boring. "

"All right! Sorry. "

"Let's start, " said Osborn. 

So they started on their short walk. The pale gold sun of a splendidcrisp morning hailed them and the streets were bright. Already, thoughthey arrived early at the church, several pews were full of whisperingguests who turned and looked and smiled, with nods that beckoned, atthe two young men. 

"What'll we do?" Osborn whispered. 

"Hide, " said Rokeby. 

They hid in a cold, stony little place which Rokeby said was a vestry, and there they waited while interminable minutes drifted by. Osbornfell into a dream from which he was only fully roused by findinghimself paraded side by side at the chancel steps with a dazzlingapparition, robed in white clouds, veiled and wreathed. She carried agreat bouquet. He stole a look at her entrancing profile and thoughtthat never had she looked so lovely. She had a flush on her cheeks, her gay eyes were serious, and her little bare left hand, when, underwhispered instructions, he took it, startled him by being tremulousand cold as ice. He pressed it and felt tremendously protective. 

An irrevocable Act had taken place without fuss or difficulty, or anyabnormal signs and wonders; the gold circle was on Marie's finger andthey were married. For a moment or two, while they knelt and a strangeclergyman was addressing them, Osborn was surprised at the ease, thespeed and simplicity with which two people gave each other theirlives. He did not know what else he had expected, but how simple itall was! This was their day of days; their wedding. He stole anotherlook at Marie and found her rapt, calm. 

He began to be annoyed with the presence of the clergyman, of Desmond, and Julia, who waited disapprovingly upon the bride, of Marie's motherand the small horde of friends and relations; he began to think, "Ifonly it was over and I had her to myself! In another hour, surely, we'll be away. "

 * * * * *

They had chosen one of the most fashionable seaside resorts as anidyllic honeymoon setting. The journey was not long, only long enoughto enjoy the amenities of luxurious travelling. Rokeby had seen to thetea-basket and the foot-warmers, as he had to the magazines. Marierepeated what she had said to Julia:

"Oh, isn't it nice, getting married!"

"Being married is nicer, " said Osborn ardently. "I'll come and sitbeside you. Let's take off your hat. Now, put your head on myshoulder. Isn't it jolly? I want to tell you how beautiful you lookedin church. I was half scared. "

"So was I at first. "

"But you're not now? You're not scared with me?"

"No--no, " said Marie with bated breath. 

Osborn smiled. "I'm going to make you very happy. You shall be thehappiest girl in town. You're going to have absolutely all you want. But first, before we go back to town, there's our honeymoon, the bestholiday of our lives. That's joyful to think of, isn't it, darling?"

"It's lovely!"

"Glad you think so, too, Mrs. Kerr. "

"Osborn, now tell me how my frock looked. "

"I _couldn't!_" he cried in some awe. He sighed as if at abeautiful memory. 

"Ah!" said Marie, satisfied, "you liked it?"

She lay against his shoulder supremely content. The winter landscape, which had lost its morning sun, was rushing by them and it lookedcold. But inside the honeymoon carriage all was warm, love-lit andglowing. There was no dusk. Marie reviewed the day in her light, clearmind, and it had been very good. Hers had been a wedding such as shehad always wanted. Osborn had looked so fine. She reviewed the detailsso carefully thought out and arranged for by herself and her mother. With the unthinking selfishness of a young gay girl, she discountedthe strain on the mother's purse and heart. The favours had beenexactly the right thing; the cake was good; the little rooms hadn'tseemed at all bad; Aunt Toppy's new gown was an unexpected concessionto the occasion; Mrs. Amber had been really almost distinguished; thecountry cousins hadn't looked too dreadfully rural. People hadn't beenstiff, or awkward, or dull. As for Mr. Rokeby--that was a verygraceful speech he made. He was rather a gifted man; worth knowing. 

But Osborn had very nice friends. 

With the agility of woman, her mind jumped ahead to those littledinner-parties. Soup one prepared well beforehand; a chicken, _encasserole_. . . . 

Perhaps Osborn saw the abstraction of her mind and was jealous of it;at the moment she must think of nothing save him, as he could think ofnothing but her. He put his hand under her chin, to lift her dreamyface, and he kissed her lips possessively. 

"Here, " he demanded, against them, "what are you thinking about? We'renot going to think of anything or anyone but just ourselves. We'regoing to live entirely in the next glorious fortnight, for a wholefortnight. Have you any objection to that programme, Mrs. Kerr?"

"No, no, " said Marie sighing, "no, no! It's beautiful. "

CHAPTER III

BEAUTIFUL

The young Kerrs gave themselves a fine time; an amazing time. A dozentimes a day they used to tell each other with a solemn delight howamazing it all was. When they awoke in the mornings, in a sleepingapartment far more splendid than any they could ever sanely hope--notthat they were sane--to rent for themselves, when an interested if_blasée_ chambermaid entered with early tea, finding Marie in oneof the pink caps and a pink matinée over a miraculously frailnightdress, with Osborn hopelessly surprised and admiring, they usedto say to each other, while the bride dispensed the tea:

"Isn't it all _nice_? Did you ever imagine anything _could_be so nice?"

When they descended to breakfast, very fresh and spruce, under theeyes of such servants as they could never expect to hire themselves, they looked at each other across the table for two, and touched eachother's foot under it and asked: "Doesn't it seem extraordinary to bebreakfasting together like this?"

And when one of the cars from the hotel garage was ordered round totake them for a run, and they snuggled side by side on well-sprungcushions such as they would probably never ride upon again, they heldhands and exclaimed under their breath: "This is fine, isn't it? Iwish this could last for ever! Some day, when our ship comes in, we'llhave this make of car. "

And when they walked the length of the pier together, two well-cladand well-looking young people, they would gaze out to sea with thesame vision, see the infinite prospects of the horizon and sayprofoundly: "We're out at last on the big voyage. Didn't ourengagement seem endless? But now--we're off!"

For dinner, in the great dining-room, with the orchestra playing dimlyin the adjacent Palm Court, Mrs. Osborn Kerr would put on theineffable wedding gown, and all the other guests and the servants, with experienced eyes, would know it for what it was; and Mr. OsbornKerr wore the dinner jacket from the best tailor in town, and afterthey had progressed a little with their wine--they had a half-bottle_every_ night; what would the bill be?--they would look into eachother's eyes of wonder and murmur: "I always knew we'd have abeautiful honeymoon; but I never imagined it could be so beautiful asthis. "

Later, much later, when the evening's delights had gone by in softprocession, they went to other delights. Osborn brushed Marie's hairwith the tortoise shell-back brushes he had given her for a weddinggift, and compared it with the Golden Fleece, the wealth of Sheba, thedust of stars, till she was arrogant with the homage of man and he wasdrunk with love of her. 

They had their great wild happy moment to which every human being hasthe right, and no one and nothing robbed them of it. It flowed to itsclose like a summer's day, and the sun set upon it with great promiseof a like to-morrow. 

But although the most darling dolly home waited for them in a suburbof the great city where Osborn was to work away his young life likeother men, although each saw and recognised the promise of the sunset, they were sad at leaving the palace which, for so short a time, theyhad made-believe was theirs. A reason was present in the mind of each, though, an irrefutable, hard-and-fast reason, why the stay could notbe prolonged, even though Osborn might beg, with success, for anotherweek's holiday. Each knew what the now mutual purse held; each, day byday, had privately been adding the price of the half-bottle, and thehire of the car, to the sum of "everything inclusive. " Each had, ofnecessity, a hard young head. 

So they went home very punctually. 

The hall-porter at the flats knew how newly married they were. Sothere was a smile upon the face of the tiger and fires burning inNumber Thirty; and he carried up the luggage with a kind alacrity; fornewly married people were his prey. They thanked him profusely, touched by his native charm, and they gave him five shillings. 

They sat down and looked at each other. 

"I think it is lovely to be at home, " said Marie. 

"There's a comfort about one's own place, " Osborn answered, "that youdon't get anywhere else. "

The hall-porter had even wound up the clocks, which Mrs. Amber andJulia had brought, among other wedding presents, a day or two before, and now four strokes sounded from a silvery-voiced pet of a timepieceon the mantelshelf. The owners looked at it, arrested and pleased. 

"It is really the prettiest clock I have ever seen, " said Marie. 

"I like the tone, " said Osborn, "I can't bear a harsh clock. Darling, that's four. You want tea. I'll get it. "

"We'll both get it. "

"But you're tired with travelling, pretty cat. You'll just sit thereand I'll take your boots off and unpack your slippers; and I'll makeyour tea. "

Marie let Osborn do all this, and he enjoyed his activity for her sakeas much as she enjoyed her inactivity. He unpinned her hat, took offher coat as a nurse removes a child's coat, kneeled down to unlace herboots, kissed each slim instep, and carried all the things neatly awayto their bedroom. Joyfully he unlocked the suit-case where he knew herslippers reposed, for had he not packed them himself, for her, thatmorning? He returned to the sitting-room and put them on. 

"Mrs. Osborn Kerr at home!" he cried, standing to look down upon her. 

"I do want my tea!" said Marie. 

"I'll get it now, darling. You sit still. I adore waiting upon you, "said Osborn, hurrying away. 

It was fine to be in his own place, with his own wife, with the worldshut out and snubbed. As Osborn strode along the short and narrowcorridor to the kitchen he admired everything he saw. He confirmed hisown good taste and Marie's. The cream walls with black and whiteetchings--more wedding presents--upon them, and the strip of plainrose felt along the floor, could not be bettered. The kitchen was aspotless little place, up-to-date in the matter of cupboards. Everything was as up-to-date as he and Marie were. There was nothingequal to this fresh and modern comfort. 

Osborn looked in a cupboard and there he saw foods, enough to beginon, placed there by the thoughtful Mrs. Amber. Upon the kitchen tablewas a furnished tea-tray, the one woman knowing by instinct what theother woman would first require after her day's journey. Osbornlighted one of the jets of the gas-stove. What a neat stove! A kettlewas handy. What a 'cute kettle! Aluminium, wasn't it? None of thosecommon tin things. He filled the kettle from a tap which was a greatimprovement on any tap which he had ever seen. 

They were all his own. 

He cut bread-and-butter. 

He lighted the grill of the gas-stove and made toast. They had ahandsome hot-toast dish. 

He hunted for sugary dainties such as Marie loved. Mrs. Amber hadprovided them in a tin. He arranged them with thought and care. 

Wasn't there any cream for his love? There was a tin of it. He emptiedthe cream out lavishly. 

All the while the petted bride rested by the fire in her little chintzroom. Life had petted her, her employers had wanted to, and her motherhad petted her, but never had she revelled in such supreme petting asthe last fortnight's. 

Where did all these fierce, man-hating young women whom one met quiteoften get their ideas from? If only they knew, if only they could betold, could be forced to open their eyes and see, how perfect theright sort of marriage really was!

Why, a man, poor dear, was abject! A girl had things all her own way. Secretly and sweetly Marie smiled over Osborn's devotion. 

As she smiled, looking tender and lovely, in the firelight, the dooropened, and Osborn came in, perilously balancing his tray on one handlike a waiter. He meant her to laugh at his dexterity; he felt afirst-class drawing-room comedian with his domestic attainments. Overone arm he had slung a brand-new teacloth. He intoned unctuously:

"I think I have all you want, madam. "

Marie laughed as Osborn wanted her to do. 

"Sit still, " he urged, "I'll arrange it all. The toast in the fender;the cloth on the table; the tray on the cloth. I understandeverything. See, Mrs. Kerr? You won't be the only know-all in thisestablishment. "

Then he waited upon her; but he let her pour out the tea, because hewanted to see her do it, in her own home, for the first time. Thesituation thrilled both, after a fortnight of thrills. 

"I wish Desmond could see us now!" said Osborn. 

"I wish Julia could. "

"I think we should convert 'em. "

Osborn sat on the hearthrug with shoulders against Marie's knees. Oneof her hands stole round his neck and he held it there; he knew it wasthe softest small hand in the world; he had no misgivings about it andits tasks. The hour seemed ineffably rosy. 

"And to-morrow, " he stated, "I go back to work. "

"My poor boy, " said Marie, "and I shan't work any more. "

"Thank heaven, no. " Osborn kissed the hand he held. 

"This must always stay as soft as rose-leaves, " he said fondly. 

"You may count on my doing my best for it, " said Marie laughing, "Ilike nice hands. No woman can look well-dressed without nicely-kepthands. And that reminds me, Osborn, I want some more cream for mynails--cuticle-cream it's called. Any good cuticle-cream will do. "

He hastened to jot it down in a notebook. His first little commissionfor his wife! For Miss Amber there had been many, but this was almostepoch-making as being for Mrs. Osborn Kerr. "I'll get it in thedinner-hour, or on my way home. Can't you think of anything else youwant?"

"I have everything else. "

"You always shall have. "

"What was the kitchen like?" Marie asked. "Was it tidy?"

"It's the smartest little place. "

"I'll see it presently, when we wash-up. "

"_You're_ not going to wash-up. "

"But, Osborn, I shall have to, often. Every day, you know. "

He looked a trifle unhappy over this, knitting his brows. Of course, they had both known that the moment would come when Marie would handlea dishcloth in the best interests of Number Thirty, but it had seemedsomewhat remote in those queer, forgotten unmarried days more than afortnight ago; more than ever remote during the stay in an hotelpalace. 

"Yes, yes, " he said, "I suppose so. I wish you needn't, though. "

"I shan't mind. A little housework is very simple; people make such afuss about it; mother makes a horrible fuss. I shall always weargloves. "

"That partly solves it, " said Osborn nodding eagerly, "rubber glovesfor wet work, and housemaid's gloves for dry, eh, dearest? You willalways, won't you? You must let me buy you all the gloves you want. "

"I have enough to begin with. "

"You are a thoughtful little genius. "

"We'll have to cook dinner to-night. "

"Oh, great work!" cried Osborn. 

"I intend to run this flat in a thoroughly up-to-date way, " Marieexplained; "that's the secret of a comfortable household without help, you know--to be entirely up-to-date. "

The husband looked immensely impressed. 

"I believe you, " he said. 

The clock struck five, and six, before they rose reluctantly. It wouldhave been rather nice, of course, just to press a bell and give one'sorders, but. . . . 

On her way to the kitchen, Marie peeped into the bedroom. She switchedup the light and looked it over, well pleased. Soon, when she hadunpacked, her dressing-table would be furnished with all her prettythings, tortoiseshell and silver, big glass powder-puff bowl, bigglass bowl and spoon with scented salts for her bath, and the manicureset of super-luxury which a girl friend had given her on her marriage. She was really adorably equipped; she was starting so very, very well. Her glance fell upon the two beds, side by side, much-pillowed, pink-quilted. 

It would be rather nice if there was a housemaid to whip in everyevening and turn down the sheets and lay out the night wear; but. . . . 

One can't have everything. 

"I think we're quite all right here?" said Osborn over her shoulder, with pride in his voice. 

"Isn't it all adorable?" she exclaimed. 

"You aren't going to put on The Frock, are you, dear girl, to do thecooking?"

"I'll put it on afterwards, just before we dish up. "

"I'll dress, too, " said Osborn. 

They proceeded to the kitchen and played with all their new toysthere. There was not so much to do, after all, because Mrs. Amber, wise woman, had provided one of those ready-made but expensive littlemeals from the Stores. You just added this to the soup and heated it;you put that in a casserole dish and shoved it in the oven; youwhipped some cream; and you made a savoury out of tinned things. Yougot out the plated vegetable dish which wasn't to be used except ongreat occasions--but this was one--and put the potatoes in it. Youlaid the table with every blessed silver thing you had, till it lookedlike a wedding-present show, as indeed it was. You lighted fourcandles and put rose shades over them, almost like those at the hotelpalace. You ranged the dessert on the sideboard, for you must havedessert, to use those tiptop finger-bowls. In each finger-bowl youfloated a flower to match the table decorations. You placed the coffeeapparatus--quite smart to make your own, you know--on the sideboard, too. 

Thus you had a swagger little dinner; most delectable. 

Then you put on the frock of frocks, and cooled your rather sorchedhands with somebody else's gentlest kisses, the healing brand, andwith some pinkish powder as smooth as silk. Then somebody else put onhis dinner-clothes and looked the finest man in the world. Then youdished up the hot part of the dinner, and the creamy sweet was allready at the other end of the table--so easy to arrange these thingsgracefully without a parlourmaid, you know--and absolutely_everything_ was accomplished. 

You sat down. 

Love was about and around you. 

What delicious soup by a clever wee cook!

Was there happiness at table? There was not greater happiness inheaven. 

CHAPTER IV

DREAMS

"You'll lie still, Mrs. Kerr, " said Osborn, when they awoke for thefirst time in their own flat, "and I shall bring you a cup of tea. "

"But, " said the drowsy Marie, raising herself on an elbow, with allher shining hair--far prettier than any one of the pinky caps withwhich she loved to cover it--falling over her childish whiteshoulders, "I must get up; Osborn, really I must; there's breakfast tocook--and you mustn't be late. "

"Lie still, Mrs. Kerr, " cried the young husband from the doorway. 

It was cold in the kitchen, very cold, when a fellow went out cladonly in pyjamas, but Osborn briskly lighted that very superiorgas-stove and put the super-kettle on. It was extraordinary howcompletely they were equipped; there was even an extra little set formorning tea for two. He made toast under the grill, with whoseabilities he now felt really familiar, and furnished the tray. He wasglad he could have everything so pretty and cosy for Marie. He wouldnever be like some men he knew, utterly careless--to all appearance atleast--as to how their wives fared. 

He had his cold tub quickly, while the kettle boiled, and lighted thegeyser in the bathroom for Marie. What an awfully decent bathroom itwas!

It was jolly sitting on the edge of Marie's bed, drinking tea, andadmiring her. Fellows who weren't married never really knew how prettya girl could look. Or at least they ought not. Her nightdress beat anymere suit or frock simply hollow. 

"Your bath'll be ready when you are, pretty cat, " said Osborn, "andI've left the kettle on and made enough toast for breakfast. "

And Julia inferred that husbands were mere brutes!

Before Marie stepped out of bed, Osborn lighted the gas-fire in thebedroom; she mustn't get cold. She went into the bathroom, and hebegan to shave, in cold water. As he shaved, he remembered--GreatScott!

The dining-room fire. The dining-room grate in ashes. 

Wiping the lather hastily from his face, Osborn hastened out oncemore. It was all right for her to put a match to a gas-fire, but ashesand coals . . . He hadn't thought of it. 

He did the dining-room grate almost as successfully as a housemaid, cleared the debris, wondering where one put it, coaxed the fire toblaze and hurried back to dress. 

Marie dressed, too. 

"I'm not going to be a breakfast-wrapper woman, " she said, as she slidinto her garments. "They're sluts, aren't they? I'm going to look asnice in the mornings as at any other part of the day. "

"Bravo, kiddie!" he cried admiringly. 

There was still time in hand when both were dressed for the cooking ofbreakfast, but there seemed quite a lot of things to do yet; and theymade rather a rush of them. One couldn't sit down to a meal in a dustyroom, so one had to sweep and dust it. And there was, undoubtedly, some trick about eggs and bacon which one had yet to learn. 

How easily and quickly one would learn everything, though. Method wasthe thing. 

He asked her many times if she wouldn't come into town and lunch, orhave tea, and they would go home together; but she explainedconvincingly if mysteriously:

"You see, dear, this first day, I'll have to _get straight_, " andhe went off alone. 

Marie fell to work in the greatest spirits. She was armoured with therubber gloves and the housemaid's gloves and a chic pinafore. As sheworked she sang. Of course, a woman must have something to occupy alittle of her day. Marie hastened about these tasks cheerfully, andbefore she was through them her mother came. 

Her anxious look at her girl was dispelled by the brightness in thebride's face. The small home was very snug; it maintained a high toneof comfort and elegance. Mrs. Amber sat down by the dining-room fireand drew off her gloves and said:

"Now tell me all about it, duck. "

"All about what?" said Marie. 

"The honeymoon, " said Mrs. Amber. 

Marie looked at her mother as if she were mad. She smiled at the fire. "We had a lovely time, " she replied evasively. 

"And had that man lighted the fires yesterday? I couldn't getround--"

"It was all absolutely ready, thank you, mother. "

"I brought the things the day before, except the cream. That I toldhim to get. And the flowers. I don't see the flowers, love. "

"They are mostly in the drawing-room, " said Marie. 

"I should like to see the drawing-room now it's finished, " said Mrs. Amber, rising eagerly. 

In the small room of pale hues she stood satisfied, almost entranced. But she had those sad things to say which occur inevitably to elderlywomen of domestic avocations. 

"This white paint! You'll have something to do, my child, keeping itclean. It marks so. I know that. Yes, it's pretty, but this time nextyear I hope you won't be sorry you had it. But of course, just for thetwo of you--well, you'll both have to be careful. You'll have to warnOsborn, my dear. Men need reminding so often. "

"Osborn is rather different from most men, " said Marie. "He is so verythoughtful; he made me some tea early this morning, and did thedining-room grate, and lighted the geyser, and everything. "

"That won't last, my dear, " replied Mrs. Amber, in a tone of quietauthority, but not lamenting. 

"Osborn is not a man who changes, mother, " said Marie. 

"The chintz is a little light; it will show marks almost as much asthe paint, I'm afraid, duck, " Mrs. Amber continued. "I don't know ifit wouldn't have been better to choose a darker ground. However, youcan wash these covers at home. The frills are the only parts which youneed to iron. I dare say you know that, dear?"

"Oh, well, I shan't have to think of those things yet, mother. I daresay Osborn would prefer me to send them to the cleaner's, anyway. "

"People live more extravagantly now, " said Mrs. Amber. "I should havedone them at home. "

"Things change. "

Mrs. Amber thought. "In marriage, " she stated presently, "someone hasto make sacrifices. "

"Why should it be the woman?"

"Because the woman, " answered Mrs. Amber quoting someone she had onceheard, "is naturally selected for it. "

"Mother, " said Marie, "don't be tiresome. "

Mrs. Amber went away reluctantly at three o'clock. She was a wisewoman, and did not want to appear ubiquitous. At four, while Marie wasunpacking the trunks they had brought yesterday, Julia came in. 

"I begged off an hour earlier, " she stated. 

She looked quite moved, for Julia; she held Marie at arm's length, stood off and surveyed her. "Well, " she asked, "how are you?"

"Very well, and awf'ly happy. "

Once more the kettle boiled on the gas-stove; once more toast bakedunder the grill; and the girls, one eager to tell, the other eager tolisten, sat down on the hearthrug in the little dining-room to talk. 

"What is marriage really like?" said Julia incredulously. "Haven't youany fault to find? Any fly in your ointment?"

And Marie replied: "Absolutely none. "

"It seems wonderful, " said Julia thoughtfully. 

"It is wonderful, " cried Marie fervently; "it is so wonderful that agirl can hardly believe it, Julia. But there it is. Marriage is theonly life. I wish you'd believe me. All the old life seems so littleand light and trivial and silly--that is, all of it which I canremember, for it seems nearly swept away. Mother came in thismorning--if it hadn't been for her I don't think I'd have rememberedanything at all of what ever happened to me before I was Osborn'swife. It's beginning all new, you see. It's like starting on the bestholiday you ever had in your life, which is going to last for ever. Try to imagine it. "

"Ah, " said Julia sourly, "a holiday! Holidays _don't_ last forever. You always come back to the day's work and the old round. "

"You need a holiday yourself, " said Marie severely. "You're so bitter. You want something to sweeten you. "

Julia looked at Marie with a yearning softness unexpected in her. "Well, haven't I come to see _you_? You're the sweetest thing Iknow. And it's fine to see you so happy. As for your toast, it'sscrumptious. "

"Eat it quickly. I want to show you round before I begin to cookdinner. "

"Fancy you cooking dinner!" said Julia, looking at Marie's little, pampered hands. 

Marie had the first faint thrill of the heroine. 

"I have to. We can't afford a servant, you know, yet, though, whenOsborn gets his rise, perhaps we shall. "

"When will that be?"

"Oh, I don't know. This year--next year--"

"Sometime--never, " said Julia. 

"Osborn is very clever. He is so valuable to his firm; they wouldn'tlose him for anything, so they'll have to give him a bigger salary. Brains like Osborn's don't go cheap. "

"That's awf'ly nice, " Julia replied. She looked down, and stroked thefurs which she had bought for herself, and thought for a while. 

"Show me the flat, there's a dear. "

Julia professed raptures over all she saw; kissed Marie, and was gone. Once more the bride, but alone this time, turned earnestly to work. 

The work seemed long and arduous and hot and nerve-racking, in spiteof the amenities of the gas stove. She was so anxious to have allperfect. Once more the table was decked, the rose shades were placedover the candles, the sitting-room fire was lighted, the coffeeapparatus was made ready. 

Marie rushed into The Frock, determined to keep up the standard theyhad set themselves, just two minutes before Osborn arrived home. 

He kneeled to kiss her; they embraced rapturously. 

"You've had a nice day?" he was anxious to know. 

"Lovely. Mother came, and Julia, and I unpacked, and went to market, and did everything by myself--"

"I'm glad you had plenty to amuse you, dear one. "

"'Amuse'?" said Marie a trifle blankly. "I've been working ever sohard all day, really, Osborn. "

"Work?" he teased, smiling. "You 'working'!" He kissed one little handafter the other. "They couldn't, " he mumbled over them. He seemed totake woman's great tasks lightly, as if he did not realise howserious, how enervating they were. 

"They're too pretty, " he said. 

He began to talk, while he carved the chicken. 

"It seemed a bit beastly to go back to work to-day after our goodtime. However, I've all the more reason for going back to work now, haven't I, Mrs. Kerr? You'll keep me up to the scratch, won't you?Look! I'm carving this bird like an old family man already. They wereall asking me, down there, how I liked my honeymoon, and where we wentand what we saw. A lot of them began talking of the time they'd had. They all said it never lasts. People are fools, aren't they?"

"Not to make it last?" said Marie. "Yes, dear. "

"The attitude of the average man towards married life is sickening, "said Osborn, "but I'm glad to think _you'll_ never know anythingabout that, little girl. "

Marie had a great feeling, as she looked under the candle-shades, atOsborn, that she had found the king of men: lover, protector andknight. 

"The attitude of the average woman towards married life is perfectlymean, Osborn. But _you'll_ never know anything about that, either. "

He knew, as he returned her look across the flowers, that he alone hadachieved every man's desire; he had found the perfect mate; she whowould never soil, nor age, nor weep, nor wound; the jewel-girl. 

CHAPTER V

HOUSEKEEPING

Marie had not thought of money in relation to herself and Osborn. Hewas known, in the set among which they both moved, and had met andloved and married, as a promising young fellow doing very well indeed, in a steady fashion, for his age. He had a salary, when they set uphousekeeping in No. 30, of two hundred a year, with a very good riseindeed, a 25 per cent, rise, at the end of every five years. And heearned this and that now and again in odd channels, vaguely dubbedcommission, or expenses. So, as a bachelor, Osborn could be almostsplendid in their set, and as a husband he was resolved to beconscientious and careful. He had decided to give up his inexpensiveclub, and presently he meant to go into the matter of conscience andcare, to give it a figure, but not so soon after the honeymoon asMarie drew him into it. It was all very comfortable saying to oneself:"I must make some arrangement; all in good time, " but the making of itleft one a little cold, a little surprised, inclined to thought. 

When the Kerrs had been housekeeping for a week, the butcher and bakerand the rest of the clan each dropped through the letter-slit in thefront door of No. 30 a very clean, spruce, new book, and the youngwife gathered them up with eager trepidation. She had been washing up, when the books arrived, all the dinner things left over from the nightbefore, and the breakfast things of this morning, and from the kitchenshe heard and recognised the blunt thump as each record of herhousekeeping talents or failings dropped upon the hall floor. Sherushed out, collected them, and retired to the dining-room hearthrugto meet her responsibilities. 

She knew the sum total was all wrong; her mother's tradesmen's booksnever reached this figure. Yet people must eat, mustn't they? And washwith soap? And have boot polish, and cleaning things, and candles fortheir dinner-table?

She asked herself, as so many young wives have done, half-sorrowing, half-injured: "But what have we _had_? I've been awf'ly careful. I couldn't have managed with less. I shall tell Osborn that it simplycan't be done for less--"

She shut the books one by one. "But it must, " she said to herself. "Our income is--"

She figured out, with pencil and paper and much distaste, their weeklyincome; she compared it with the sum total of the tradesmen's books, and to that one must add rent, and travel, and holidays and doctor'sexpenses. 

Doctor's expenses? Cut that item out. One must never be ill, that'sall. 

She was glad she was going to meet Osborn that afternoon, and have teawith him in the West End; he was to beg off early specially for it. 

The flat seemed very silent. What a deserted place! It would be niceto go out and see someone, speak to someone. 

She went to lie down. 

She lay on her pink quilt, and began on that castle again. It was afine place, a real family seat. While she built, she manicured herfinger nails, looking at them critically. She had not begun to spoilthem yet, thanks to the rubber gloves and the housemaid's gloves withwhich Osborn had declared his eternal readiness to provide her. No onewould feel it more deeply than Osborn if one of those slim fingerswere burned or soiled or roughened ever so little. 

She had a few coppers only in her private purse, but they would carryher to Osborn, the legal fount of supply. Out into a fine afternoonshe stepped lightly, and the admiring hall porter watched her go. Hewas not so certain of her, though, for he had seen many young bridespass through his portals, in and out every day, ridden always by somesmall fretting care till they trembled at the sight of someone who wasalways looking, through their ageing clothes, at the ill-kept secretsof their pockets. He had entered in his memoranda that the Kerrsrented only a forty-pound flat. 

Heedless of the hall porter, Marie was away upon her joyous errand. She was very young, very healthy, and she looked ravishing. Thesethings she knew, and they were enough. She went upon the top of anomnibus to the City street where was her rendezvous, but in her galasuit, her gala hat, and the furs which had nearly broken Mrs. Amber, she felt immensely superior to such humble mode of travel. 

Before she alighted from the omnibus she saw, from her altitude, Osborn striding along the street. He was not alone; Desmond Rokeby waswith him, listening to something which Osborn was telling him eagerly. Although Marie could not hear the words, she leaned over and lookeddown with delight upon her man whom she had chosen, so tall and smart, and fine, and young. She loved the turn of his head, the swing of hisshoulders, his quick tread and eager look, as if all life wereunrolling before him like a map, and he could choose at his lordlywill any one of the thousand roads upon it. Osborn was speaking of hiswife; he was telling Rokeby about the splendour of the game he hadlearned to play. He was trying to tell Rokeby something of the wondersand beauties of one woman's mind and heart; and he was telling him, too, of smaller things, of the comforts and attractions of home, ofthe little kingdom behind a shut front door, of the angel's food anangel cooked, and all her benevolences and graces and mercies. 

As he spoke, diffidently but glowingly, of these things, with hiswords rushing out, or halting over something that was not to be told, his attention was called to the omnibus top on which Marie sat; he didnot know what called him, only that he was called, and there she was, leaning over, smiling between the soft rim of her furs and thedown-drawn brim of her hat, with her big muff held up against herbreast, cuddlingly. Osborn gasped and stood hat in hand, with his faceturned upwards. 

"Have you seen a vision, man?" asked Rokeby. 

"There's Marie, " Osborn answered. 

Marie descended daintily and crossed the street to the two men. Herhair gleamed and her feet were so light that she seemed to dance likea shaft of sunshine. At the moment she was a queen, as every prettygirl is at moments, with two subjects ready to obey. 

Rokeby greeted her smilingly with admiration. "Mrs. Kerr, Osborn talksof no one but you all day. He was in the midst of a song likeSolomon's, only modernised, when that chariot of yours bore down uponhim and cut it short. How are you? But I needn't ask. And when may Icall?"

"Oh, sometime, old man! We'll fix a day, " said Osborn, signalling to ataxicab. He jumped in after his wife, and Rokeby went on his way goodhumouredly. "The perfect deluded ass!" he thought, "and may the dearchap ever remain so!"

Osborn explained to Marie. "He needn't call _yet_. I'm hanged ifhe's going to come around the loveliest girl in town in theafternoons, when her lawful husband isn't in; and I'm equally hangedif he's going to break in upon one of our very own evenings. So as allthe evenings are our very own, there's nothing to be done about it, isthere? What do you say, Mrs. Osborn Kerr?"

"We don't want anyone else, " said Marie. 

"You do look sweet, " Osborn cried, "I want all the world to see mewith you. So where'll we go? Where's the place where all the worldgoes?"

They knew it already very well. They drove there. Tea was half a crowna head and one tipped well. What matter? There were soft music, softlights, pretty women, attentive men. Everyone looked rich, but perhapseveryone was not, any more than were Marie and Osborn. Perhapseveryone was only spending his pockets empty. The stage was wellrepresented. The place had a know-all air blended with a chasteexclusiveness. It was a place where the best people were seen andothers wanted and hoped to be seen. Here sat Marie and Osborn, shadedby a great palm group, drinking the choicest blend of tea, eatingvague fragments, and looking into each other's eyes. The worries ofthe morning slipped by; Marie forgot her tradesmen's books, and Osbornthe monotony of his daily toil. Life was soft, gracious, easy andelegant. They bought a piece of it, a crumbly piece, with fiveshillings before they went away. 

"Taxi, sir?" asked the commissionaire. 

"We'll walk, thanks, " said Osborn. Walking was a sort of recreationnot too dowdy. They went a little way on foot, then turned into a Tubestation and travelled home. When they wormed their way down a crowdedtube train compartment to two seats they were faced with the everydayaspect of life again. Tired people were going home; business men hadnot yet shaken off the pressure of their affairs; business womenlooked rather driven; here and there women with children worriedthemselves with their responsibilities. One or two children werecross, and one or two babies cried. 

More than one woman looked at Marie jealously. 

They read the popular story; the new-married girl, careless in herhealth and beauty; untouched by time or trouble; the worshipful youngman, whose fervour was unworn by toil or fret. Every woman who lookedat Marie and Osborn sitting side by side, with shoulders leaningslightly, unconsciously, towards each other, found in her heart somememory, or some empty ache for such fond glory. 

The Kerrs alighted at Hampstead and walked briskly, Osborn's handtucked under Marie's arm, for it was dark, up the road to the flats. On their way they passed rows and tiers of flats, all similar, savethat one represented more money, maybe, than another, all holding orremembering sweet stories like theirs. But they did not think of that;they were in haste to reach No. 30 Welham Mansions, the little heavenbehind the closed front door. 

"We had a jolly old afternoon, hadn't we?" said Osborn after dinner. "I'll take you there again. "

"Can we afford it?" said Marie, with a droop to her mouth. 

"We will afford it. I'll make lots of money for my Marie. We'll have adear old time!"

"I've been thinking, Osborn. "

"A wretched exercise, " he said gaily. "Don't you worry yourself, chicken. Just be happy. That's all I ask. " He grew the least degreepathetic. "I can't be here all day to look after you, and see thatyou're happy; you'll have to see to it yourself. Do that for me, willyou? Make my girl awf'ly happy. "

"I am happy, Osborn. "

"We do ourselves pretty well, don't we, dear?" he said appreciatively. "This is jolly snug. Now I'll make the coffee. You sit still. "

Marie watched Osborn. She took her cup from him, and stirred hercoffee into a whirlpool, and at last said:

"You see, Osborn, I want some money, please. "

"All right, darling, " he replied. "I'll give you a bit to go on withany time. "

His ready hand jingled in his trousers pocket. 

"It's for the tradesmen, " said Marie; "I thought we'd pay every week. "

"That's it, " he enjoined, "be methodical. That's splendid of you. "

"And this week it comes to two pounds ten. "

Osborn's hand ceased its jingling; he withdrew it and sat still. 

"Oh!. . . " he said in an altered voice, "does it? Well, all right. "

"That doesn't include the coal, or--or allow for gas, " murmured Marie. "I expect the meter is ready for another half-crown. "

Osborn looked at the sitting-room fire. 

"Marie love, " he said, clearing his throat, "I'm sorry, but--but willit always come to as much?"

"I hope not. No, I'll keep it down as much as I can, Osborn. But thisweek--"

"Was just a trial trip, " said Osborn. 

"You see, I told the tradespeople to send in weekly books and--and ifI don't pay, they'll wonder. "

"Don't fret yourself, kitten. I'll give it to you. But--"

Osborn put down his coffee cup in a final way. 

"The fact is, Marie, you see--I don't want you to think me mean--"

"Oh, Osborn!"

"No, but the fact is, it just happens I'm able to give it to youto-day, because I've got a little in the bank. But our honeymoon andthe first instalments on the furniture and your engagement ring ranthrough most of it, and--and so there's only a little left--abouttwenty pounds or so. My people lived on an annuity, you know; theyonly left me savings. Well, I thought it seemed snug to keep a balanceof twenty pounds or so for emergencies, you know. But I'll draw acheque on it for you with pleasure. Two pounds ten? All right. "

"But, Osborn, " said Marie, wide-eyed, "can't you give it to me out ofyour--"

"My screw doesn't come in till the end of the week, " Osborn explained. He flushed and for the first time looked at her a little haughtily. 

"I'm sorry, " she murmured; "perhaps we ought to make some arrangementand I'll keep to it. "

"That's it, " he said, still slightly uncomfortable; "now look here, dearie--"

"I'll get my account book and put it down. "

"Does she have an account book?" said Osborn more lightly. "Howknowing!"

Marie brought a book, and opened it upon her knee, and sat, pencilpoised. She was very earnest. "How much ought we to spend?"

"You know what my screw is, " said Osborn, as if unwilling toparticularise. 

Marie wrote at the top of her page, "Two hundred pounds. "

"Forty pounds rent, " she wrote next. 

"And my odd expenses, lunch and clothes, and so on, " said Osborn, "have never been less than sixty or seventy pounds, you know. "

She wrote slowly. "Sixty to seventy pounds, expenses, " when he stoppedher. 

"I'll have to curtail that!" he exclaimed. 

In the ensuing silence both man and wife thought along the same track. It suddenly gave him a nasty jar, to hit up against the necessity ofstopping those pleasant little spendings, those odd drinks, thosesuperior smokes, the last word in colourings for shirts and ties. Ofcourse, such stoppage was well worth while. Oh, immensely so!

And she had a lump in her throat. She thought: "He'll find all this aburden. He's had all he wants; and so've I. I wish we were rich. "

"Look here, darling, " said Osborn. "How much'll food cost us? I don'tknow a great deal about these things, but if it's any standard totake--well, my old landlady used to give me rooms and breakfasts anddinners for thirty bob a week. Jolly good breakfasts and dinners theywere, too!"

Marie murmured very slowly: "I'm not your old landlady. " She imagedher, a working drab, saving, pinching, and making the best of allthings. Compare Marie with Osborn's old landlady! "Besides, " shemurmured on, "there's me, too, now. "

Osborn nodded. "Well, " he said, "how much do you think?"

"Thirty shillings for _both_ of us per week, " said Marie, inclined to cry. "That's better than your old landlady. "

Osborn hastened to soothe her. "Look here, " he protested, "don't fussover it, there's a love. Very well, I'll give you thirty bob a week, but that's seventy-eight pounds a year. My hat! I say, can't yousqueeze the gas out of it?"

"I _will_ get the gas out of it!" said Marie, with tightenedlips. 

"Great business!" said Osborn cheering; "put it down, darling. "

So under the "Rent, forty pounds, " she wrote, "Housekeeping, includinggas, seventy-eight pounds. "

"That's one hundred and eighteen pounds out of my two hundred, " saidOsborn, knitting his brows and staring into the fire. 

"Coal?" whispered Marie, her pencil poised. 

Osborn's stare at the fire took on a belligerent nature. 

"I say!" he exclaimed, "we can't have two fires every day. It's simplynot to be thought of. "

"We'll sit in the dining-room in the evenings. "

"Put down 'Coal, ten pounds, '" said Osborn grudgingly. 

When Marie had put it down, she cast a sorrowing look round her dearlittle room. She would hardly ever use it, except in summer. 

"That's close on a hundred and thirty pounds, " said Osborn. "We'llmake allowance for that, but you'll try to do on less, won't you, darling?"

"I'll try. "

"That leaves seventy pounds for my life insurance, and for my expensesand yours, Marie. A man ought to insure his life when he's married;it'll cost me fifteen pounds a year. "

"Oh, what a greedy world!" cried Marie, despairing tears running downher face. 

Osborn kissed them away, but remained much preoccupied. 

"It leaves fifty-five pounds between us for my clothes and lunches, and travelling, and your pocket money. "

"How about your commission, Osborn? Your 'extras'?"

"With luck they'll pay for a decent holiday once a year or so. "

Marie suddenly readjusted her scheme of life while she sat blindlygazing before her into that too-costly fire. "Osborn, " she saidquietly, "I--I shouldn't think of wanting any of your fifty-fivepounds. You'll need it all; you must keep up appearances. I'll squeezesome pocket money out of the housekeeping. "

"Oh, my darling!" said Osborn gratefully, "do you really think youcould? I expect, though, there'll be a nice bit over, if you'recareful, don't you? You won't want to spend ten pounds on coal, forexample. "

"I intend to manage, " Marie replied vigorously. 

"And I'll often be able to give you a decent present out of mycommission. I shan't let you go short. "

"Osborn, I mean to help you. We'll get on splendidly. You do love me, don't you?"

"My darling, I adore you; and I know you're the finest, bravest girlin the world. I would like to load you with everything beautiful underthe sun, and some day I will. When I get a rise, you'll be the firstto benefit. I'll make you a real pin-money allowance. Don't I long todo it?"

"Osborn, meanwhile, can I have this week's money?"

Osborn wrote out a cheque for two pounds ten very bravely. Thediscussion had been a weighty one. As he handed it to her, he drew herdown on his knee, and, holding her tight, impressed her: "You won'tlet this happen again, in any circumstances, will you, dear girl?"

"Never!" she promised fervently. 

So Marie began housekeeping in the way her mother began, and hergrandmother, and those jealous tired women in the Tube; the old way ofthe labouring souls, the old way scarred with crow's feet andwrinkles, and rained on by tears. 

CHAPTER VI

DISCIPLINE

Marie meant always to be trim and neat and lovely, a feast for the eyeof man. But when winter had settled upon town in a crescendo of cold, and when you thought twice before lighting that gas-fire which you hadmeant to dress by every morning, and when, too, Osborn began to resumehis normal habit of sleeping till the very last moment, why, you nolonger gave yourself--or rather, Osborn no longer gave himself--thetrouble of rising to make tea. Marie had much more to do than merelydress, and as soon as she had opened her sleepy eyes she sprangresolutely out into the grim cold that seemed so closely to surroundher snug bed, and fell to work. She felt as if the toil of a lifetimelay behind her, by the time she and Osborn sat opposite to one anotherat their breakfast table, and yet, too, as if the toil of a lifetimelay before her. 

Marie took upon her shoulders most of the laundering. Osborn said"Clever kid" when he knew, but it did not impress him much; hisfeeling about it was vague. Did he not work all day himself? All thisfiddling donkey-work with which women occupied themselves at home--hedismissed it. Always, when he returned, by the dining-room fire, in aneasy chair and a decent frock, sat Marie, sweet and leisured. It wasevident that her household duties did not overcome her. 

And all day the flat was desolately quiet. How queer women's liveswere! They grew up, looking infantilely upon men, and reading aboutthem in fairy tales. One day a pretty girl became engaged to one ofthem. What congratulations! What importance, delight! What prospects!What planning! What roses! The pretty girl then married one of them, the dearest and best of them, and began to wash dishes. Her heart, which had never been perplexed before, grew very perplexed. Her littlepurse, which had never been so very hungry before, now hungered forthings, simple things, matinées, and sweets and blouses. She stayedall day in a flat, desolately quiet, waiting for one moment when thedearest and best came home. 

How queer women's lives were!

 * * * * *

When Osborn was going to dine with Rokeby at his club he told Marieabout it just as she was stretching a reluctant foot out of her bedinto the cold of a grey December morning, and an extraordinaryrebellion rose in her with sirocco-like fierceness. She got out of bedwithout replying, clutched at her dressing-gown and dragged it on, while Osborn's drowsy voice continued, "Desmond asked me, and Ithought I would; he wasn't sure if you'd mind--if you'd think itrather often. But I told him you weren't that sort; I told him youwere a sport. You'll do something nice this evening, won't you, darling? What'll you do?"

"What is something 'nice'?" said Marie, staring at her face, whichlooked wan and cold, in the glass. 

"I don't know, " said Osborn. 

"Nor do I!" she cried angrily. "Life's just one slow, beastly grind. "She ran out of the room to light the geyser, and tears were streamingdown her face, and sobs rising one upon the other in her heart. Shesank upon the one bathroom chair, leaned her head against the wall andwept helplessly. Her body was shaken with her crying; never in herlife had she so cried before. She felt as if she must collapse underits violence. 

She thought: "Osborn's going out to dinner, and I can mope and starveat home. "

With the sub-conscious dutifulness of woman she realised that her bathwas ready; that she must hurry, that there was breakfast to make, andthe dining-room to sweep, and . . . And . . . What a string of tragicdrabnesses! Obeying this instinct of duty in her, she got, stillsobbing, into the bath, and her tears fell like rain into the hotwater. A man would have cried, "Damn the bath! Damn the breakfast!Damn the brooms and dusters! Scrap 'em all!" And for the while hewould straightway have scrapped them and felt better. But Marie wentmiserably on, as her mother and her grandmother and all those tiredwomen in the Tube had done times out of number, for the sisterhood ofwoman is a strange thing. 

Osborn met her as she was coming from her bath, quiet, subdued andpale. Rather, he had been standing outside the door, waiting andanxious. "Darling, " he said scared, "what is it? Tell me! Aren't youwell? Has anything upset you? What can I do?"

Marie left her dressing-gown in his detaining hands and, sobbingagain, ran along the corridor to her bedroom. She began to put herhair up feverishly with shaking hands. 

Osborn followed her quickly with the dressing-gown, beseeching: "Doput it on! Do, Marie, do! You'll get cold. It's freezing. "

"M-m-much you'd c-c-care, " she sobbed. 

"Oh, darling, " said Osborn, wrapping the dressing-gown and his armstightly round her, "tell me! What is the matter? What have I done?Aren't you happy, dearest?"

"Happy!" she gasped. "Why should I be happy?"

"I-I--love you, dearest, " said Osborn in a tremulous voice. 

"You g-go out, and every d-day it's the same for me. All day I'malone; and I loathe the work. Everything's always the same. "

"I wish I could give you a change, sweetheart, " said Osborn, terriblyharassed. 

She hated herself because she could not be generous, but somehow shecould find no generous words to speak. 

"Shall I stay with you this evening, Marie?"

"No. You've p-promised. And I'm not that sort; you t-t-told him so!"

"Is that all that's the matter, Marie? Because everything's always thesame?"

"I'm so tired. And ragged, somehow. "

"Oh, Marie, I wish I could stay at home to-day and look after you. You'll lie down and rest, won't you?"

"When I've finished all my charwoman's work. "

Osborn was silent, biting his lips; and presently Marie looked up, andseeing his face, drew it down and kissed him, crying: "Oh, I'm abeast; forgive me! But I'm so tired, and somehow so--so ragged. "

"Poor darling!"

"You'd better go and bathe, Osborn. We're late as it is. "

"So we are, by Jove! Look, I'll be awf'ly quick this morning, and comeand help you. That'll be some good, won't it?"

She assented with sorrowful little sniffs, and he took hisperplexities away into the bathroom. He was terribly troubled, notseeing what was to be done. What could a man do? Women's work, women'slives, were the same all the world over--married women's, that is. Onecouldn't do more than give them the best home one could, and come backto it like a good boy early every evening, and love them very much. Ifone were only rich! How money helped everything! Osborn cursed hismeagre pockets as heartily as Marie had cried over them. 

Osborn hastened into his clothes and went to the kitchen. Bacon wassizzling gently over a low flame, coffee and toast were made; nothingremained for him to do, but, very wishful to show his good intentions, he stood over the bacon as if controlling its destinies. Marie foundhim there, quiet and thoughtful, when she came in. 

"It's all ready, " she observed in a subdued voice. 

"Bravo, kiddie!" said Osborn, "I see it is. You're magnificent. "

A little while ago this praise would have made her glow sweetly, butnow it tasted sour in her mouth; she did not particularly wish to be amagnificent cook-general, a magnificent charwoman. All her nerves feltstretched as if they must snap and she must scream. Tremblingly sheset a tray on the table. 

"Don't give me any, please. "

"Darling! No breakfast!"

"I'll have some toast. Oh, don't, don't worry me! I've told you I feelsimply on edge. "

Osborn ate his bacon with a feeling that somehow he ought not; but hewas hungry. He ate Marie's portion, too, half apologetically. Therewas one thing, however, which, very sensibly, he omitted to do; he hadthe tact not to open the morning paper. There are some things which awoman will not stand, and one is the sight of an abstracted man behinda paper, letting his crumbs fall down his waistcoat, when she feelsnervy. 

"Lovely morning, dearest, " said Osborn; "you ought to go for a briskwalk. "

"Perhaps I will. "

"You do look awf'ly seedy. "

"I feel it. "

"I hope your mother will come round this morning. She'd do themarketing for you, or something, wouldn't she?"

"Yes, Osborn, I'm sure she would. "

Osborn helped himself to toast and tried to eat it quietly; he hadsome dumb, blind instinct which comes to men, that crunching would bevexatious. He handed butter and marmalade tenderly to his wife andcarried his cup round to her for replenishment, instead of passing it. He did all he knew. 

The anticipation of Rokeby and that sanctuary, his club, invaded hismind agreeably. A club was a great institution. If he touched a goodcommission this year--but no. Certainly not! He put the idea from him. 

He put a hand in his trousers pocket and jingled there. A thought hadcome to him, which comes to all men in moments of trial concerningwomen, moments calling for prompt treatment and nice judgment. 

A present!

He could not afford it, but it must be done. What else could he do? Hefelt remarkably helpless. He felt about cautiously and intimately inhis pocket, knowing with exactitude all that was there. It was notmuch. On Fridays he now banked half his weekly salary against suchdemands as rent, furniture instalments and so on. Thirty shillings hegave to Marie; ten he kept. This was Tuesday. 

He withdrew his hand with something in it--two half-crowns. He wouldlunch light for the next three days. 

"Darling, " he said, with a slight break in his voice, so anxious hewas to propitiate the pale, pretty girl who brooded at him from thehead of the table, "look here! Do something to please me. When I'm outon the spree to-night let me think of your having a good time too. Whynot ring up Miss Winter and get her to go to the theatre with you?Here's two seats. "

A slight flush stole into Marie's cheeks. 

"Oh, Osborn, " she said, "but--"

"What?"

"Can you afford it?"

"Blow 'afford'!" said Osborn largely, placing the half-crowns beforeher, "we must do absolutely anything to prevent you from gettingwretched. "

She took the money up, half hesitating. She read the wistfulness inhis face, but she felt rather wistful too. 

"Thank you, Osborn, " she murmured; "it'll be lovely. Julia's sure tocome. But, Osborn--"

"What?"

"Some evening you'll take me yourself, won't you?"

"Rather!"

"Shall I save this till to-morrow?"

"No, no!" he cried. "To-day's when you want a tonic, not to-morrow. Goand get your tonic, Mrs. Osborn. Go and enjoy yourself!"

He was restored to content. 

"I must go, " he said, jumping up. "Let me kiss you. We're friends, aren't we, darling? You'll try not to hate the work so very much? WhenI get my rise it will make a lot of difference. "

Then they clung together, kissing and whispering, and the cream wallsand the golden-brown curtains were as beautiful to them as ever. 

"Be a happy girl!" he cried, before he shut the front door. 

"I am!" she called back, and he was gone. 

She went down gaily, in spite of her weariness, and used thehall-porter's telephone to ring up Julia. Miss Winter would come andwas very pleased, thank you. Marie went upstairs again, the ascentmaking her breathless. 

The stairs and the landings were grey stone, uncarpeted, for this wasthe cheapest block of flats in the road. Oh, money, money! Accursed, lovable stuff!

Marie sat down, panting, in her kitchen. A mist rose before her eyes;she shut them and took a long breath; her head was light and dizzy. She began to be afraid. 

An angel, in the guise of Mrs. Amber, knocked upon the front door. Marie dragged along the corridor, and could have wept once more forsheer relief at seeing so irreplaceable, so peculiarly comforting aperson as her own mother upon the threshold. But she restrainedherself with a great effort from the relief. 

"Well, duck, " said Mrs. Amber cheerfully, with that wise eye upon hergirl's face, "I was out and I just thought I'd run in and see how youwere. You're not too busy for me, love? Ah, you've overdone it and youlook very pale. "

She sat in Osborn's easychair in the dining-room. She was stout andsolid, a comforting rock upon which the waves of trouble might fretand break in vain, for she had weathered her storms long ago. ButMarie refrained from going to her and laying her head in her lap andcrying like a little girl. She was twenty-five, married and worldly, with great things upon her shoulders. Instead of going to that truerock of ages, the mother, for shelter she sat down opposite, composedly, in the companion chair, and answered:

"There's a good deal to do in a home. "

"Ah, you've found that out?" said Mrs. Amber regretfully. "We all findit out sooner or later. But a little domestic work shouldn't make agirl of your age look so pale and tired as you do. How do you feel, love?"

"Ragged, " said Marie, "and--and awf'ly limp. "

A great question was crying in Mrs. Amber's heart, but she was tootactful to pursue it. Modern girls were not lightly to becomprehended; she knew well that she did not understand her owndaughter, and young people kept their secrets just as long as theythought they would. 

"You ought to rest, my dear, " she said hesitatingly. "I should liedown on that nice couch of yours every day after lunch, if I were you. A few minutes make all the difference, I assure you. "

"I never used to rest, " said Marie. 

Mrs. Amber continued her matronly diplomacy:

"No, duck; but that was different. It's so different--"

"What is, mother?"

"When you're married, dear. You should rest a bit. "

"I don't know what you mean, mother, " said Marie. 

"Just that, love, " Mrs. Amber replied soothingly, "only that youshould rest. It's wiser and it will make a great difference to you. "

"I can't think what you mean, mother. I don't see why being marriedshould alter one. "

Mrs. Amber looked into the fire and said slowly: "Well, duck, it does. Doesn't it?"

Now Marie was conscious of an overpowering irritation. These oldwives' tales! These matronly saws! How stupid they were! Howmeaningless, foundationless and sickening! She did not reply to Mrs. Amber's question, but stirred restlessly in her chair, swinging herfoot, and said:

"Well, it's after twelve, and we may as well have some lunch. I'lljust run--"

"No, love, you _won't_!" Mrs. Amber exclaimed, showingconsiderable vivacity. "I'm going to take you straight away to liedown on that nice couch, and I'll find the lunch myself, and we'llhave it on a tray together. Now!"

"There isn't a fire in the drawing-room. "

"I'll soon put a match to it, dear. "

"Then we'll let this fire out, " said Marie, after a pause. 

Mrs. Amber hesitated, too. 

"It's quite right to be careful, " she replied. 

"After all, " said Marie, her irritation breaking out, too rebelliousfor all bonds, "I don't want it, mother. I'll only have to do thegrate to-morrow; two grates instead of one. That's all. Such is life!"

Mrs. Amber looked into the fire. 

"I'll tell you what, " said she slowly. "You lie down on your bed. Idon't know why I didn't think of it before. There's a gas fire there, and we'll have that. "

"There are such things as gas bills, too. "

"And a time to worry over them, " said Mrs. Amber tartly; "but thisisn't the time. You're going to be comfortable, and I'm going to makeyou so. You'll come along with me right now, my duck, and in fiveminutes you'll say what a wise old woman you've got for a mother. "

Suddenly Marie leaned upon her mother and obeyed. She was lying on herbed under the pink quilt, and Mrs. Amber had her hat and coat andwalking-shoes off, and the gas fire began to purr, and a heavenlycomfort visited her. She knew reluctantly that these matrons werehorribly wise women, after all. She looked into her mother's eyes, andsaw there the question which cried in her heart, but she could notread it. It was too old for her. 

Mrs. Amber said equably:

"Now I'll run into the kitchen and find what I shall find, my dear. You're not to trouble yourself to think and tell me what; I washousekeeping before you were born. And meanwhile, if I were you, I'dundo my frock and take off my corsets and be really comfortable. Yoube a good girl, dear, and do as you're told just this once, to pleaseyour silly old mother. "

Docilely Marie sat up, unhooked her trim skirt-band, and unfastenedher corsets. At once she felt lightened. _How_ wise thesedreadful matrons were! She did more; she cast her skirt and blouseaside with the corsets, and when Mrs. Amber returned she found herlying rest fully under the eiderdown, untrammelled, in thin petticoatand camisole. 

"Eggs?" said Marie, craning her neck to look. "They were for Osborn'sbreakfast--two boiled eggs, mother. "

"Well, they're poached now, duck, " said Mrs. Amber; "they've gone toglory. Let Osborn have bacon; there's half a dozen rashers in yourlarder. "

"He had bacon this morning. "

"Let him have it again, " said the comfortable lady. 

"Julia's coming to dinner to-night, " Marie confided to her mother. "Osborn's dining with Mr. Rokeby, but he's sending us both to thetheatre. Isn't it kind of him?"

Mrs. Amber nodded smilingly. 

"He hates me to be dull, " said Marie. 

Again Mrs. Amber nodded smilingly; she thought what a make-believeworld these young brides lived in, and then she sighed. 

All that afternoon she tended Marie, and gave her tea, and fulfilledher offer of setting the dinner forward before she went away, with theinquiry still in her heart. 

Marie was better. 

She rose from her bed about six o'clock, pleased as a cat with thewarm room, and set about the business of her toilet. Sitting down tothe dressing-table, she looked long and earnestly at her face; therest she had taken had plumped and coloured it again, but there was asomething, a kind of frailty, a blue darkness under the eyes. Perhapsit made her look less pretty? She was inclined to fret over it atrifle. To counteract it she dressed her hair with a fluffy softnessunusual to her trim style; she took immense pains over herfinger-nails and put on her best high frock. She hurried over herpreparations, having been reluctant to leave her bed till the lastpossible moment. Mrs. Amber had laid the dinner-table, but there werestill things to do. 

"Some day I shall keep an awf'ly good parlour-maid, " Marie promisedherself. 

She went in to criticise and retouch her mother's painstakingarrangements. She grew flushed and irritated over the cooking. 

"_And_ a good cook, " she added. "What dreams!"

Julia looked a good deal at Marie during dinner in the delusive lightof the shaded candles, and at last she said:

"You're thinner. And there's something about you--I don't know what itis. You are almost fragile. "

"I manage this flat entirely without help, you know, " said Marie, looking round the speckless dining-room proudly. 

"_That_ ought not to do it, " replied Julia, dismissing domesticwork with a contemptuous wave of the hand. "Are you worrying?"

"Worrying?" Marie repeated. "What about?"

"Oh, anything. "

"I have nothing to worry over. "

"Blessed woman!" replied Julia, diving into the freak pocket of anexpensive garment bought with her own money. "May I begin to smoke?"

"Let me get cigarettes, " said Marie, springing up for Osborn's box, which lay on the mantelpiece behind her. 

"Always carry my own, thanks, " said Julia, brandishing thecigarette-case she had produced. 

The sudden movement she had made gave Marie a curious sensation; Juliaand the room and the red fire swam around her; her brain was numb anddizzy; she staggered and caught at her chair-back. 

"Oh!" she gasped. "I feel so--so--"

"What?" exclaimed the other girl, springing up. 

Marie sank into her chair. 

"I was so giddy--and faint, Julia. "

Julia drew her chair close to Marie's, put down her yet unlightedcigarette, and looked at her friend shrewdly. 

"Look here, kiddy, " she began, with a softness Marie had never heardin her voice before. Then she stopped and asked: "Where's the brandy?"

"There isn't any, " said Marie in a far-away voice; "there's onlyOsborn's whisky, and that's horrid. I'll be all right soon. Make thecoffee, dear, will you? And make it strong. "

Julia not only made the coffee strong, but she made it very quickly;she had a wonderfully quiet, efficient way of accomplishing things. The coffee stimulated Marie and steadied the erratic beating of herheart. 

"That's better, " she said. 

Then Julia was modern enough to ask without preliminary that questionwhich had asked in Mrs. Amber's elderly heart all day. 

"Marie, are you going to have a baby?"

Marie could not have been more confused and confounded. 

"I!" she stammered. "Have a baby! I never thought of such a thing!"

"It's not an unknown event, " said Julia; "it has been done before. Think!"

Marie thought. 

"Julia, " she whispered, hushed, "perhaps--"

"You must know--or you can make a good guess. "

Marie began to tremble. "I've been feeling so simply awful; I couldn'tthink what was the matter with me, but I--I believe you may be right. I shouldn't be surprised--"

Julia drew at her cigarette savagely; tears were in her eyes;something hurt her and she resented it. 

"Shall you be pleased?" she asked. 

"Pleased? I--don't--know. "

"Will your husband be pleased?"

"I don't know. "

"People seem to run about anyhow in the dark, " said Juliathoughtfully. 

Marie blushed. "Well, we'd never made any sort of plan. "

"I think it would be lovely to have a baby, " said Julia defiantly. 

The challenge called forth an answering thrill in Marie; a force whichshe had not known she possessed leapt to meet it; she felt warm andglowing, tremulously excited and happy. 

"So do I!" she breathed. "Oh, Julia, I wish I knew for certain. I_must_ know. "

"Go and see a doctor, " said Julia; "he'd tell you. "

"When?"

"When you like. I know one whose surgery hours are eight tillnine-thirty. "

"Oh, if I could only know before Osborn comes home to-night!"

"Let's go. "

"Now?"

"Now. "

Marie's mind flitted to its former anxieties of the purse, which shedid not wish to reveal to Julia sitting there so well-dressed in thegown that she so easily had paid for. Theatre or doctor? Doctor ortheatre? Which should it be?

She glanced dissemblingly at the clock. 

"I don't know if I've time. We ought to be starting to _The ScarletPimpernel_. "

"Chuck the theatre, " said Julia. "I don't mind. This is a far greaterbusiness. Come along; I'll take you. "

Light and glory flamed in Marie's heart. 

"Don't you really mind?"

"My dear kid, I wouldn't let you go to the theatre tonight. You'llcome and see that doctor, and then sit here in your easychair and restquietly. "

Marie's feet were no longer leaden as they carried her into herbedroom to fling on coat and hat. She was consumed by a great wonder. Could it be?

She counted all her money hastily into her bag and rejoined Julia. They went out, walked to the end of the road and boarded a car, but itwas Julia who paid the fares while Marie sat dreaming beside her. Itwas not far to the doctor's door. 

Marie did not know how to begin, but found the way in which doctorshelped one was wonderful. In three minutes he had the story, and wastwinkling at her with cheery interest, though as far as he wasconcerned it was the oldest, ordinariest story in the world, whichinvariably ended by calling him out of bed in the middle of some wetnight, after a day of particular worry. 

He asked her all about herself, where she lived, if she got up early, if she was busy, if she frivolled, and arrived at a mental summary ofher circumstances. The circumstances were as old and ordinary as thestory, but her pretty face and wavy hair, her childish form and daintyclothes, made him wish for a moment that she could have kept out ofthe struggle. 

He could not say to her: "Well, if you feel very tired and faint inthe mornings, breakfast in bed; if you feel walking too much for youat the moment, use your car; tempt your appetite; nourish yourselfwell. And later, when the spring comes, we must tell your husband togive you some nice week-ends at the sea. " But, taking her hand andpatting it kindly, he substituted this: "Well, Mrs. Kerr, I'm glad tohear that you've plenty to occupy yourself; it's a great thing to keepbusy, specially at these times. As a matter of fact, there's no finerexercise than a little normal housework. And you must walk, too; thatwalk to market in the mornings is just splendid. As for your appetite, you must try not to get faddy; it's a woman's duty to keep up herstrength, you know. I congratulate you most heartily on the good newsI have just been able to give you. "

"Thank you, " said Marie, frightened but exultant, "and may I--what isthe fee?"

"Five shillings, please, " he replied, after a slight pause. 

Then Marie was out again in the waiting-room with Julia, to whom shenodded mysteriously, and whose hand she squeezed. The doctor escortedboth girls to the door, and looked after them for a moment; but it wasan ordinary story, and the world must go round. 

Julia and Marie walked all the way home, talking of what was going tohappen next September. 

They sat for a long while on the hearthrug in the dining-room whenthey reached home, talking about next September; and when at lastJulia left, Marie still sat there hoping and planning, thinking ofthis perfect flat with a baby in it, and longing for Osborn's returnto share the unparalleled news. 

She had seen little, intimately, of babies; in the streets and parksshe met them, and said: "What sweets! What precious things!" And shehad thought more than once how beautiful it would be to own one, sitting in its well-built perambulator with the clean white lacycovers and cushions, and the starched nurse primly wheeling it. 

There would be knitting to do, too; endless shawls, swallowing uppounds of the best white wool; and fleecy boots and caps and vests. When the next housekeeping allowance was paid, some of it should bestealthily diverted to this delicious end. 

The clock struck eleven; for some while now Marie had ceased to noticehow musical was its sound, as compared with other people's clocks, butto-night she noticed it anew. It was like little silver bells pealing;there ought to be birth-bells as well as wedding-bells. 

Osborn was late, but Marie waited up for him, untired. She mended thefire, for he might come in cold, and they were not going to bed yet. No! They must sit and discuss next September. How would Osborn receivethe news? What did men really think about these things? It wasimpossible they could feel the full measure of women's gladness, butin part, surely, they shared it?

At twelve Osborn came in, fresh and pink from the cold outside, with ahilarious eye, and a flavour of good whisky on his breath. He was ingreat spirits and could have ragged a judge. But as he took off coatand muffler in the hall, displaying himself in dinner clothes, therecame creeping out to him from the dining-room, softly as a mouse, butwith eyes bright as all the moon and stars, his wife. She had abouther an air of lovely mystery, about which Osborn was still too jollyto concern himself. But she looked so beautiful that he caught her tohim, and kissed her many times. 

"You ripping little kid!" he said fondly, "have you waited up for me?Or have you only just got in?"

"I waited up for you, dear. "

"Is there a fire?" asked Osborn. 

"A good one. "

They went into the dining-room and sat down, Osborn in his chair, sheon the hearthrug beside him, and she let him tell his story first, sothat afterwards all his attention should be rapt on hers. He saidgaily: "I've had a ripping evening. Desmond was in his very best form, and he'd got two more fellows there, and we were a jolly lot, I assureyou, my kid. By Jove! don't I wish I belonged to that club! I've halfa mind to get Desmond to put me up. He would, like a shot. We had anawf'ly decent dinner; they give you _some_ dinner at that club. We drank toasts; you'd like to hear about that, wouldn't you? That oldone, you know: 'Our sweethearts and wives; and may they never meet!'"

Osborn laughed. 

"I've had a nice evening, too, " said Marie, leaning against thecaressing hand. 

"That's good, " said Osborn. "Miss Winter came and you had dinner here, I suppose. What did you see?"

"We didn't go to the theatre. "

"Not go!" said Osborn, "how was that? You weren't seedy again, wereyou, kid?"

"Rather, " Marie murmured, "so Julia took me to a doctor instead. "

"My dear!" Osborn cried. 

"Osborn, " said Marie, looking up at him, "we--we're going to have ababy. "

"The deuce we are!" Osborn exclaimed abruptly, and he sat back andlooked down at her sparkling face incredulously. 

"You're glad?" she asked. 

Osborn pulled himself sharply together. He said to Rokeby afterwards:"I believe it's the biggest shock of a chap's life. Awful good newsand all that, of course. " But now he was concerned only with Marie, that pretty frail thing so joyously taking upon her shoulders whatseemed to him so vague and dreadful a burden, and for the moment hewas aghast for her. 

"Are you?" he stammered. 

"I think it's lovely, " she murmured. 

"Then I'm glad, " said Osborn; "if you're glad, I am, you dear, sweet, best girl. But tell me all the doctor said, angel, and just what we'reto do and everything. "

"We don't do anything till next September. "

"Is it to be next September?"

"Yes, " said Marie, trembling a little. 

CHAPTER VII

DISILLUSION

Osborn had to tell Desmond Rokeby; he simply couldn't help it. Theymet at a quick lunch counter, an unusual meeting, for Rokeby lunchedalmost invariably at his club. As Osborn ate his sandwiches and drankhis ale he was looking sideways at Rokeby all the time, and feeling, somehow, how futile he was, how worthless bachelors were to the world;and presently, when the space around them had cleared, and thewhite-capped server had moved away, he almost whispered:

"I say, Desmond, there's great news at my place. "

Rokeby looked into Osborn's eager face. 

"I wonder, " said he, "if I could give a guess. "

"I know you couldn't, old chap, " said Osborn; "the surprise simplybowled _me_ over. "

Rokeby had already guessed right, but he had the tact and kindness notto say so; he had known men's pleasure in the telling before. 

"Are you going to tell me?" he asked. 

"Am I _not_, old man?" said Osborn, looking at the colour of hisale with a kind of smiling remoteness. "Well . . . This is it . . . Howdoes one put it?. . . Well, here it is. Next September there'll bethree people instead of two at No. 30 Welham Mansions. "

"By Jove!" said Rokeby. "You must be awf'ly pleased!"

"Simply off my head! So's Marie. "

He did not bank his two pounds that week, but kept them in his pocket. They need not spend both, but one Marie must have. And when he wenthome that afternoon, having asked permission to leave early, for afamily purpose, and when he put the usual 30s. Into his wife's hand, he cried:

"You're coming out shopping, Mrs. Kerr. You're coming out to buy yardsand yards of whatever it is. And why mayn't we do a little dinner aswell? You're to be kept cheerful. "

She had been feeling pathetic all day, and she was full of pleasure atthis. She hugged Osborn and lavished on him all her peculiar petendearments, and ran to change into her best suit and furs. They wentout together, very happy, and town lay spread before them, as if fortheir delight. It was scarcely yet full dusk, the sky was like opalsand the streets were just becoming grey, the lamps starring them. Thecold was crisp, and women in short skirts, trim boots, and big fursstepped briskly, their faces rosy. Osborn had his hand under the armof a woman as trimly shod, as nicely-furred as any they met, and, aswell, as being proud and thrilled with his new significance, he wasproud of her. He liked men to glance away from the girls they escortedat Marie's face; and he liked to think: "Yes, you admire her, don'tyou? That little girl you're with--you're taking her out and spendingyour money on her and making an ass of yourself, and she don't caretuppence for you. But this beautiful woman I'm taking out is my wife, and she loves me. "

Osborn was led, dazzled, into labyrinthine shops; he stood with Mariebefore long counters, while she inspected fine fabrics and, drawingoff her glove, felt them critically with her fine hand. He watched hereagerly and devotedly, as if he read the concentration of herthoughts, and he imagined the thoughts to be these:

"Is this soft enough for him? Is this delicate enough for my baby'sbody? Nothing harsh shall touch my darling; he must have the best, andthe best is not good enough for him. We will buy the most beautifulthings in the world for my son. "

And she ordered the lengths in a voice which cooed; she bought lawnand flannel, and great skeins of wool, and lace fit for fairies; andshe sought, as if trying to remember the persecution of the purse, forbargains in blue ribbon, but by that time Osborn was too exalted topermit bargaining. He, too, was saying within himself:

"Shan't my boy have the best? When he's little and weak shan't I winit for him? And when he's grown and strong, won't he win it forhimself, by Jove!"

He bought the blue ribbon. 

They had spent one of the two pounds, and there seemed very little forit, of those fine things fit for a baby; but Marie stopped short afterthe spending of that sum. "It's enough to begin on, " she urged; "whenI've finished with that I'll get more. " And she whispered, when theattendant's back was turned: "I shall squeeze it out of the thirtyshillings all right, Osborn. I shall put by every week. "

"Then, " Osborn replied in the same _sotto voce_, "if you won'tspend more for your baby, you darling, you'll be taken out to dinner, because I love you so; and you're to have a good time and be happy. I'm to keep you cheerful. "

They chose one of the smallest West End restaurants, where they spentwhat Marie called a dream of an evening. Her languors evaporated inthat subtle air, her eyes brightened, her cheeks glowed; she couldface right into the teeth of the coming storm, and do no more thanlaugh at it. How good it was to be alive, and how alive she was! Shehad two lives. She was that most vital of all creatures, the expectantmother. She felt vaguely as if God had granted to her a great and newpower. 

The next morning the sensation of power had vanished. She was only atired and nervous girl with a nasty feeling of nausea on her tongue. Once more Osborn brought her tea, and she sipped it leaning back onher pillow; as she stretched out an arm for it she caught sight of herface in the glass and sank back again. It was so tired and fretted, and the freshness of her skin seemed lost. How she wished she need notget up! She dreaded the day with its small and insistent exactions. 

She was conscious of a fierce irritation with petty things. 

Osborn could hardly eat breakfast himself when he saw how sick andsorry she was; he watched her efforts to eat a piece of dry toast andtried to comfort. 

"When I saw the doctor, " he said, "he told me this feeling of yourswould only last two or three months. "

"'Only'!" said Marie despairingly, "'only'!" She recalled Julia to himfaintly, when she exclaimed: "I wonder how you men would like to feelsick and faint and ragged-out for 'only' three months!"

He hung his head. 

"Well, we can't help it, " he pleaded, half guiltily. 

"I know, " she whispered, with a sob in her throat, "but don't say'only. '"

Osborn left home somewhat earlier than usual that morning. That sortof half-guilty feeling made him glad to go. It wasn't his fault, wasit, that Nature had matters thus arranged? He agreed with his wifethat it was bad management, but he couldn't help it. He was glad that, as he left, she asked him to do something for her; glad that he wasable to do it. 

When he had gone, Marie did a very wise thing, though he would havethought it a foolish one. She lay down and cried. She cried till shecould cry no longer. She lay there some while after her tears hadceased, as if their fount had dried, and she adapted her outlook, aswell as she was able, to these unforeseen, surprising and dismayingconditions. 

She was the victim of the pretty and glossy storybook, the sentimentalplay, and of a light education. None of these things had prepared herfor the realities she was undergoing; the story-book ended glossilywith the marriage and happy expectations of a wonder-struck youngcouple. In book and play the heavenly child simply happened; no onefelt miserably sick, ferociously irritable, or despairingly wearybecause of its coming. There had been no part of her education whichhad warned her of natural contingencies. She now saw that for herblessing she must pay, and pay heavily maybe, with her body. 

She argued with herself a little fractiously on the escape of men. They had children without suffering; marriage without tears. Was itfair? Oh, was it in any sense equal or fair?

 * * * * *

The little clock struck 6. 30. Osborn was due, and dinner not yetpreparing. Marie ran to the kitchen. "Goodness!" she said to herself, "it's endless! Life's nothing but getting meals. Is eating worthwhile?" She hurried around the flat till she was tired again, buthasten as she might, Osborn arrived before the cooking was done. 

She was changing her gown when he appeared at the door of their room;she had not yet lowered the standard she had set for the ever-daintywife prepared to charm her lord. 

"Hallo, kiddie!" said Osborn, his voice rather tired. "I'm awf'lyhungry. Had a quick lunch. Is dinner ready?"

"No, it isn't, " she replied sharply; "and what's more, it won't be foranother half-hour. "

"Well, you might hurry it. "

"I've been hurrying; I'm sick of hurrying, and sick of getting meals. "

The door slammed. She swung round with raised eyebrows, hands up toher hair, which she was dressing. 

Osborn was gone. She heard him entering the bathroom noisily. 

"Temper, " she said aloud. "Temper!"

There was a big blank wall, ugly, insurmountable, cutting right acrossthe garden of married life. 

CHAPTER VIII

BABY

Marie awoke Osborn very early on a September morning; she leaned uponher elbow, gazing over to his bed, with terror in her eyes. 

"Osborn, " she gasped, "fetch the doctor! Telephone the nurse! Thetime's come, and I'm so frightened. You won't leave me long? I can'tbe left. Come back quickly and help me, Osborn. . . . I daren't stayalone. "

As Osborn ran, roughly dressed, and sick with fear, down the road tothe doctor's house, the irritations, the trials and domestic troublesof the past half-year were swept away by comparison with this thatloomed infinitely greater. It had seemed to him, though he had borneit more or less silently, very pitiable that a man, the breadwinner, should ever come home weary of evenings to find his dinner not ready;it had seemed to him sometimes, well as he had concealed the feelingfor the most part, almost intolerably irksome to bear the strain ofthe fads and fancies, the nerves and frets of a delicate, child-bearing woman; he had wondered more than once if jolly cynicslike Rokeby weren't right after all; the numerous small inroads uponhis pocket had been unexpected, pin-pricking sort of shocks. But allthis now receded; the hour was upon them, upon him, and the woman heloved; what did a spoiled dinner matter? What did a fretful quarrelmatter, if only she won through? He begged the doctor's immediatepresence as a man begging life; but he himself hurried ahead, back toMarie. When with trembling lips and trembling hands he had kissed andcaressed her, he lighted the fires in the flat, in the dining-room, her bedroom, the bathroom geyser and the kitchen stove; he didn't knowwhat else to do, and he had vague ideas about plenty of hot water forsome purpose unknown. He brought Marie tea and she would not let himleave her again; she clung to him as to a saviour, but he felt sohelpless. 

The doctor arrived before the nurse; the nurse while he was stillthere. "It won't happen yet, " he told them. "You must be a brave girl;nurse'll tell you what to do; and I'll look in again at mid-day. "

"You'll stay, doctor?" she cried. 

"You won't leave her, doctor, " stammered Osborn aghast. 

"You'll be all right, " said the doctor to Marie; "you've got nurse andI'll be here again long before you want me. " Outside in the corridorhe faced Osborn's protests. 

"My dear fellow, I can't stay. It wouldn't do any good if I could. Remember she isn't the only woman in the world to go through it. "

"She's the only woman in the world to me!" cried Osborn in a burst ofagony. 

The doctor advised Osborn to eat breakfast before he left him, andwhen he had gone the two terrified young people hung upon the wisdomof the nurse. 

Before the doctor came again Osborn was shut out of the chamber ofanguish, but the flat was small and from the farthest corner of it heheard Marie's moans and cries and prayers. 

He stood with his hands over his ears, praying, too, praying that soonit would be over, that she might not cease to love him. "How can sheever love me again?" he thought over and over. 

It seemed to him a dreadful death for love to die. 

 * * * * *

As September dusk was falling, after a silence like fate through theflat, Osborn heard his child's cry. Half an hour after that the doctorcame out of the birth-place. He walked through the open sitting-roomdoor to the spot where Osborn stood as if transfixed and saw how theyoung man had suffered; but he had seen scores of such young mensuffer similarly before. He glanced around the room and saw the deadfire in the grate. He himself looked weary. 

"Buck up!" he said, with a hand on Osborn's shoulder. "You've a jollylittle boy. You look bad! What have you been doing all this time?"

"Listening, " Osborn gasped. 

"And you've not done any good at it, have you?" the doctor said, shaking his head. "You might as well have cleared off, you know, on tothe Heath--saved yourself a bit. However--Yes, I quite understand howyou felt. You'd better have something--a cup of tea, a whisky andsoda. "

"She?" Osborn uttered. 

"She's doing all right; I shall look in again to-night. "

"She--she had a--a rough time?"

"Yes, " said the doctor, "girls of her type do. We've progressed toofar, you know, much too far, for women. She's suffered very much. I'msorry. "

"Can I see her?"

"You may go in now and stay till Nurse sends you away. "

While the doctor let himself out quietly, Osborn tiptoed down thecorridor between the cream walls whose creaminess mattered so little, and the black-and-white pictures that had lost their values. He tappedwith icy finger-tips upon Marie's door and the nurse let him in. 

He looked beyond her to the bed where Marie lay, such a slim littleoutline under the covers, such a little, little girl to suffertremendously. Her eyes were open, dark and huge and horrified; overher tousled fair hair they had drawn one of the pink tulle caps, nowcome, indeed, into their own. 

"There she is, " said the nurse cheerfully. "We've made her look verysmart, you see, and she's feeling very well. We shall get onsplendidly now, and the baby's bonnie. "

But she could fool neither of these young people; they were toomodern, too analytic, too disobedient. When the horror-struck eyes ofMarie and Osborn met they knew the immensity of what had occurred. Nocheerful professional belittlement could avail. Osborn knelt down byhis wife. 

"Leave her to me a bit, Nurse, " he said in a strangled voice. "I'll bevery quiet. "

"For a few minutes, then, " the nurse replied, and she left them. 

Osborn put his face down and cried tears that he could not stop. Helonged to feel Marie's hand, forgiving him, on his head, but she hadno comfort for him. She lay so still, without sound or sign, thatsoon, checking his grief with an effort nearly too big for him, helooked up and saw that she was crying, too. She was too weak to crypassionately, but her weeping was very bitter. This frightened him, sothat he sprang up on tiptoes and called the nurse back. He kept hisown shamed, wretched face in shadow. 

The nurse sent him away and Marie had not spoken one word. 

He crept into the kitchen and made tea, found cold food and ate ascratch sort of meal; he had eaten nothing since early morning, andthen not much. 

He had received a great big shock. 

He did not know that women suffered so. He had sometimes read howafter the birth of a baby, the husband went in and found his wife, pale perhaps, tired perhaps, but radiant, joyful, triumphant. He hadnot known that anguished mothers wept such bitter tears. Nothing wasas he had been led to believe. 

Could she ever get well?

The nurse came in quickly and softly, and saw the haggard man sittingat a deal table, eating his scraps. She viewed the situation wisely. 

"You'll have to get the porter's wife in to look after you a bit, " shesaid. "You can't go on like that. And _my_ hands will be full. "

"Nurse, " said Osborn, "was she very bad? Is that the--the worst?"

"There are worse cases, " replied the nurse briskly, "but she hassuffered a great deal. What did you expect? She's a delicate, slimgirl, and we're not savages now, more's the pity. The first baby isalways the hardest, too. "

"The first is the last here, " said Osborn savagely. 

The nurse smiled wisely. "Oh, " she said placidly, "no doubt you'll besending for me again in a couple of years, or less. "

"What do you think I'm made of?" Osborn cried. 

"The same as most men, " said the nurse. "But will you tell me where tofind the patent groats, for I've come to make gruel and I haven't timeto talk. "

"I'm afraid we never keep any groats or things, " he exclaimed. "I'msure we don't. "

The nurse answered confidently: "Mrs. Kerr is sure to have boughteverything. "

Search in the larder revealed the groats, and the nurse began thecooking over the gas-stove. While she made the gruel, Osborn thoughtof Marie awaiting her trial, preparing for it . . . Buying groats. 

He wished he had known what he knew now, so that he could have helpedher more, have thought of the groats for her. 

"Nurse, " he asked, "do you think she can ever get quite well?"

"Of course she will. Rest and good food will be all she wants. "

"Nurse, can I go and say good night to her?"

"Don't make her cry again, Mr. Kerr, and you may come in at eight. "

As she went out with the cup of steaming food, she looked back to ask:

"Did you see the baby?"

"Don't mention the damned baby!" said Osborn with deep anger. 

"The baby can't help it, " answered the nurse, going out. 

Osborn sat there thinking. No! The baby couldn't help it. That wasvery true. Losing his hostility to this fragment of life, he began tofeel a faint curiosity. What was it like?

At eight o'clock he would look at the baby. 

The nurse looked out of the bedroom door just before eight andsignalled to him. This time she did not leave them alone, though shebusied herself at the other side of the room, with her back to them, because she knew how shy these young things were. And this time Marielooked at Osborn with the ghost of a smile, barely more than a tremorof the lips. He bent down. 

She whispered into his ear: "I don't--think--I could ever--go--throughit--again. "

"Never again, my sweetheart, " he whispered back. 

She made a motion with her lips; he kissed them gently. "Good night, "he murmured, "sleep well, poor little angel. "

"She'll sleep, " said the nurse unexpectedly, from near the fire. Shewas tending the baby now, and Osborn looked across at it in thesubdued light. What a little mottled pink thing! What creases! Whatinsignificance to have brought about all this!

"Look at your bonnie baby, Mr. Kerr, " said the nurse, holding the mitealoft. 

"Is that a bonnie baby?" said Osborn sourly. 

"Osborn, " whispered Marie from the bed, "he's a beautiful baby!"

Osborn looked down, startled, and saw in her wan face some glimmer ofan unknown thing. She--_she_--was pleased with the baby! _She_ admiredand loved it!

He went out astonished. 

The next morning, still flat on her pillows, she was nursing the babywith a smile on her mouth. Under her pink cap the faintest colourbloomed in her cheek; she asked for a fresh pink ribbon for hernightgown; she had slept peacefully. Some flowers were sent veryearly, with congratulations. They were from Rokeby and from Julia, andwere arranged near her bed as she lay with this wonderful toy, thislittle new pet, Osborn's son, beside her. She had emerged out of herblack darkness into light. 

CHAPTER IX

PROBLEMS

Throughout Marie's convalescence there were things to buy; littlethings, but endless; to a woman who has suffered so greatly for theirmutual joy can a man deny anything? The husband of a year cannot. Every day, before he went to his work--he was third salesman to one ofthe best Light Car Companies in town--Osborn held consultation, overthe breakfast table, with the nurse. He used to say, as bravely andcarelessly as if he felt no pinch at his pocket, "Is there anythingyou want to-day, Nurse?" And there was always something, a lotion, ora powder, or a new sponge, or a cake of a particular soap. The nursehad no compunction in adding: "If you _do_ see a few nice grapes, or a really tender chicken, Mr. Kerr, I believe she might fancy them. "

Osborn's lunches, during that month, grew lighter and lighter; theyalmost ceased. 

Mrs. Ambler proved expensive in the kitchen, breaking for the whilethrough her economical rule, feeling nothing too good for her poorchild. She used to remind Osborn every time they met, by word, orlook, or expressive sigh, how Marie had suffered. He felt oppressed, overridden and tired; but he was very obedient beneath the rule of thewomen. 

He had to wait upon himself a good deal; sometimes he brought a chopfor dinner home in his pocket and grilled it himself. 

He slept in the room relegated to him as dressing-room or to a chancevisitor, as occasion might arise; it looked forlorn and dusty, and thetoilet covers wanted changing. 

He longed to have Marie about again, blithe and pretty; and to be ridof this pack. He thought of his mother-in-law and the nurse as a pack. 

Several times he succumbed to dining with Rokeby at his club, but healways hurried home in time to say good night to Marie _before_she fell asleep. 

When the baby was nearly three weeks old, he was called upon to lifthis wife out of bed for the first time, and to put her in an armchair, which had been prepared with pillows and a rug, by the purringgas-fire. She was so eager to be moved, and he so eager to have her tohimself for just a little, that he begged permission to take her intoanother room for awhile, but the nurse would have none of it, and shewas right, for Marie was white and tired when she had sat in the chairfor only ten minutes. That staggered Osborn afresh. He wasspeechlessly sorry for her, and sat by her holding her hand, watchingher concernedly, until she asked to be put back into bed again. Thatwas on a Sunday. 

The Sunday marked his memory. It disappointed him so bitterly to findthat Marie was not stronger. After all the chickens and grapes, anddoctors' and nurses' fees, she was not strong; and what could he domore for her? He was not a rich man. After the drain of all this theymust live more steadily even than before; he could not waft her_and_ the baby away to some warm south-coast resort to finish herconvalescence; he could not take her for long motoring week-ends. 

In a week the nurse would go. Would Marie be ready for her to go? Ifnot, could Osborn keep her longer?

He knew he could not. There was only a sum of twelve or thirteenpounds left from the twenty which had represented the nest-egg whichhe had when he married; five of those pounds the doctor would take;six of them the nurse would take. He tried to arrange the disposal ofhis salary afresh, and could do no more than cut down his weeklyexpenditure of ten shillings to five. 

But Marie and the baby were worth it all--if only he could get themalone again. 

A week after that the nurse left and Osborn came back to Marie's room. 

He looked forward to it; part of the dreadfulness of the past monthhad been their separation; now they were to be alone again, withoutthat anarchic and despotic pack. On the morning, before he left, hewished the nurse good-bye with a false heartiness and handed her, breezily, a cheque. He would see her no more, God be thanked! When hecame home that evening his place would be his own, his wife his own, the baby their own; there would be no stranger intruding upon theirsnug intimacy. 

Osborn's heart was light when, at six o'clock, he put his latchkeyinto the keyhole and entered; he gave the long, low coo-ee whichrecalled old glad days, and Marie emerged from the kitchen, finger onmouth. 

"Hush, don't wake him!"

"Is he in bed?"

"Nurse stayed to put him to bed before she left. "

Osborn embraced her. "We're alone at last, hurrah!"

"Will you help me?" said Marie. "I'm so tired. "

"Course I'll help you, little dear, " he replied tenderly. "We'll doeverything together, just as we used to. "

"Osborn, " said Marie suddenly, "that's the whole secret of marriedlife, to do everything together, nice things and nasty things. "

"Of course, darling. We do, don't we?"

"I suppose we do, " she answered doubtfully; "at least there are somethings a man doesn't share because he can't. "

Her eyes dilated, and he guessed what she was thinking of. "I know, sweetest, I know, " he said hastily, "but try not to remember it; it'sall over and done with; and, Marie, I suffered, too. "

She remembered, then, the tears they had shed together on the night ofthe baby's birth, and her heart was soft. 

The night seemed punctuated to Osborn by the crying of the baby. Itwoke at regular hours, as if it could read some clock in the darkness;and quickly as, it seemed to him, he must have roused, Marie hadwakened quicker, and was hushing the child. He could hear her softwhispers through the darkness, in the subsequent silences during whichhe guessed, with a thrill of anxious awe, that she was feeding it;frail as she was, she gave of what strength she had to the baby. Neverhad Marie seemed more wonderful to Osborn. 

Very early in the morning she was tending the baby; he wished that hehad been able to keep the nurse longer. He left her reluctantly afterbreakfast, to get through the baby's bath and toilet unaided, beforethe heavier work of the flat. Women who knew would have understood whyMarie trembled and despaired at the tasks before her. When the babycried as, with hands still weakened, she tried to hold up its slippinglittle body in the bath, she cried, too. As she cried, she thought howtears seemed to be always near her eyes during these married days. Wassomething wrong with marriage? Before, in her careless girl-days, shehad never wept; she had never so suffered, so wearied and despaired. While she questioned, she dressed the baby in the flannel and lawnthings she had made for it a long while ago, and when she had dressedit, she fed it again, and again it slept. 

It was astonishing how much heavier a month-old infant could growduring an hour's marketing. 

That reminded her that they had something else to buy, a big thingthat would swallow up nearly, or quite, a week of Osborn's pay, aperambulator. The baby had luxuries; his toilet set from Rokeby, hischristening robe from Julia, his puffed and frilly baby-basket fromGrannie Amber, were dreams to delight a mother's heart; but he had nocarriage. For a little while she might carry him when she was not tootired; and when she was, he might sleep out on the balcony that juttedfrom the sitting-room window, and she could stay beside him; butultimately the question of the perambulator must arise. 

As Marie walked home with her baby and her basket, she said toherself: "I won't ask poor Osborn now; not when he's just paid thatwoman a whole six pounds; not till he's settled the doctor; andthere'll be an extra bill for the baby's vaccination soon, and thenext furniture instalment's due; but when all that's cleared off, I'llchoose the right time and ask him. I shall give him an extra nicedinner, and tell him we'll have to buy one. "

In a week, when the doctor called to vaccinate the baby, he orderedthe mother to leave off nursing it herself; he put it upon a patentfood, not a cheap food; and it formed a pertinacious habit of wearingout best rubber bottle teats quicker than any baby ever known. In thenights Marie did not now reach out in the darkness to her baby and, gathering it to herself, nourish it quietly, without the certainty ofwaking Osborn; but there had to be a nightlight, there had to bebusiness with a little spirit stove and saucepan, the unlucky jingleof a spoon against the bottle, so that Osborn began to mutterdrowsily: "Hang that row!" and she longed to scream at him, "It's_your_ baby, isn't it, as well as mine?"

Osborn was unused to and intolerant of domestic discomforts such asthese; in the nights his nerves were frayed; at the breakfast-table heshowed it: "You look tired to death, and I'm sure I am, " he grumbled. "If this is marriage, give me single blessedness every time. Worry andexpense! Expense and worry! Such is life!"

In the evenings she was very subdued; she was losing her life andlight; he did not know that during the day, after such display of hisirritation, she cried herself sick. He asked her to come out to dinnerone evening; he said:

"You and I are getting two old mopes. Look here, girlie, put on yourbest frock, and come and dine at Pagani's; I can't afford it, butwe'll do it. "

But she could not. 

"Baby, " she said, hesitating. 

Osborn looked at her in silence. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, after awhile, "aren't we ever to have our evenings out, then? Shall youalways be tied here now?"

"A baby ties one, " she replied. 

"So it does, doesn't it?" said Osborn despondently. 

Marie looked at him steadily. Just as she wanted to scream at him inthe night, so she now longed to cry: "It's harder on me than you! Doyou think I don't _want_ ever to go out? Do you think I don'toften long to go into the West End and look at the shops, or do amatinée with mother or Julia, and come back refreshed?"

But with the prudence of her mother's daughter she restrained herself. 

"Day in, day out, are we always to live the life domestic pure andsimple?" Osborn demanded. 

For answer she shrugged her shoulders. Osborn thought her strangelynonchalant, almost contemptuous. 

"Well, I, for one, damned well won't do it, " he said, rising from thetable. 

"But I must, " Marie replied in a level voice. 

It was Osborn's turn to look at her; he wondered just what she meantby it. 

"Well, " he asked, "I can't help it, can I?"

"Neither can I, " said Marie. 

Osborn put on his coat and hat and went out. It was the first time hehad ever gone out after dinner at home. For some while after he hadleft Marie remained alone at the table, staring before her. The smalldining-room was still charming in the candlelight, but it took on anew aspect for her. The cream walls and golden-brown curtains enclosedher irrevocably. She would never get away from this place, the prisonof home. Day in, day out, as Osborn said, it would be the same. Theman might come and go at will, the woman had forged her fetters. 

Didn't men ever understand anything? What crass vanity, whatselfishness, what intolerance, kept them blind?

Marie was hardening. She did not cry. After a while she rose andcleared the table. As Osborn was not there, wishing for her company, she washed up. That would make it so much easier in the morning. 

It left her, though, with an hour now in which to sit down and resumeher thinking. 

The flat was very quiet, very desolate. The man had gone out to seekamusement. How queer women's lives were!

She knew women whose husbands invariably went out at night, as soon asthey had fed. What did these women really think of their men? What didthese men really think of their women? How much did each know of theother? At what stage in these varied married lives did the wife becomemerely a servitor, to serve or order the serving of her husband'sdinner, for which he came home before, again, he left her?

Married life!

At nine-thirty Marie prepared the baby's bottle and went to bed. Sheschooled herself to sleep, knowing that during the night the babywould make his demands, and she fell asleep quickly. She did not hearOsborn come in. He looked about the flat for her before going to hisdressing-room, and, not finding her, said to himself wilfully:"Marie's sulking; she wouldn't wait up. Does she always expect afellow to stay at home?"

By the glim of the nightlight, when he went into their room he saw hersleeping. The child slept, too. Osborn got resentfully into his bed, and thought of Rokeby, with whom he had just parted, and the end of aconversation they had had. 

"You could afford to marry, Desmond. "

"What's the standard?"

"Being able to keep servants, " said Osborn harshly. "You marry thegirl you love, a pretty girl you're proud to take about, and she can'tcome out to dine with you; she can't move from home; babies, they cryall night, burn 'em! And she gets ready to hate you. It's hell!"

CHAPTER X

RECRIMINATION

On a day of January, like spring, Julia went upon a sentimentalerrand, influenced by she did not know what; but she guessed it wasthe youth in the air. It made her think of the youngest thing sheknew, and that was Marie's baby, and of what she could do for it; andall that she could do, as far as she saw, was to buy it a superfluouswoolly lamb. So after her day's work was over, at half-past five, Julia put on her hat and coat with a purpose, and stepped into the toydepartment of her favourite stores. 

Julia was not mean; from out the whole flock of lambs which she foundawaiting her selection she chose a beauty. Its white fluffiness andits beady eyes affected her softly; her handsome face grew motherly asshe insinuated the stranger into her muff, where her hands stroked itunconsciously. Julia was far more pleased with the lamb than the babywould be, as she boarded an omnibus and rode towards Hampstead. 

It was six when she arrived at the door of No. 30 Welham Mansions, andMarie opened it to her with the baby in her arms, huddled up in arather soiled shawl from which only his incredibly downy head emerged. He looked solemnly at Julia and emitted an inquiring croak. 

"You aren't still carrying that baby out, are you?" Julia askedsuddenly. 

They entered the sitting-room together. 

"What else can I do? If I go out, he's got to go, too. "

"You'll get a perambulator?"

"I'm going to ask Osborn soon. "

"Why not ask him now?"

"He's had such a lot of expense, poor boy. "

"Still, " Julia argued, "it's got to be bought, and you ought to besaved. Ask him to-night, after dinner. "

"I believe I will, " said Marie. "My back ached so. "

Julia was more bewildered than angry. 

"My goodness!" she said sharply. "What's the matter with life? Whycan't a young man and woman have a baby and look healthy over it? I'vegot to ask someone that, and get an answer. "

Julia followed Marie back to the kitchen. 

"I'll whip the cream, if he's got to have it, " she said grudgingly. 

"And I'll go and look nice for once. Then I'll ask him for theperambulator. "

Marie came out again in the wedding-frock of chiffons, very tumblednow, looking sweet but with the hectic flush of her exertions still onher cheeks. 

"All my clothes are going to glory!" she lamented. 

"Tell you what, " said Julia, producing frothy mounds of cream roundher energetic whisk, "do have my bridesmaid dress. I've never worn itsince your wedding--too picturesque for my style, that frock is. Butif you--"

"No, I won't!" Marie protested, tears in her eyes. "I'm not going totake anything from you except your old gloves for the housework. Itwould be scandalous; you, a girl working for her living, and me, amarried woman with a husband to work for me--"

"I know which I'd rather be, " Julia remarked. 

"So do I, " said Marie, with a quick intake of breath. 

They looked at each other a little defiantly, but did not proceed toany enlightenment. Then Julia went up to Marie and laid her arms abouther neck and her cool lips upon her hot cheek. 

"Well, leave it at that, " she said. "Good-bye, kiddie; take care ofyourself. I can't stay. Send for me any time. I must fly!" And wasgone. 

Osborn came in hungry before seven, sniffed the dinner cooking, andturned into the dining-room. He took off his boots, fished his carpetslippers from behind the coal-scuttle, and put them on with a sigh ofrelief. The smell which pervaded the flat was savoury and good; thedinner-table was ready to the last saltspoon; the baby was quiet; allseemed to promise one of those smooth domestic evenings sometimesgranted to a man. 

He settled down by the fire after dinner to read so much of hisevening paper as the Tube journey had not given him time for, whileMarie made coffee and handed him his cup. 

"Osborn, " she said. 

"Yes, dear. "

"I wanted to ask you about something. "

Into Osborn's eyes crept a harassed look, almost of fear; it was avery reluctant look, with repugnance in it and resignation andsuspicion. 

"About something?" he asked cautiously, "or for something?"

Marie had seen the look and had quite an old acquaintance with it. That ever-ready lump rose to her throat, and she had that passingwonder which she had often felt before--why she should cry so easilynow. 

"For something, " she answered hesitatingly. 

There was a silence. 

Osborn lifted his paper as if to resume reading. His face flushed andhis forehead lined. 

"What do you want now?" he asked at last. 

Marie flushed, too, till her face burned and tears glittered in hereyes. 

"I'm afraid, " she said, "that--that we'll have to buy a pram, shan'twe?"

"A 'pram'?" said Osborn, as if she had asked for a motor-car. 

"All babies have to have one. It's time--he ought to have had afterthe first month. He's getting so heavy, I can't carry him about muchlonger. "

"Then don't carry him about. "

"I've got to, unless I stay in altogether. "

Osborn became silent. Because he felt desperately poor he also feltdesperately angry; because he felt desperately angry he was angry withthe most convenient person--his wife. 

"Couldn't we buy one, " said Marie, after he had remained mute for somewhile, "from the furniture people on the instalment plan?"

"Instalment plan!" he barked. "I'm sick of instalments! When am I evergoing to be free? When's my money ever going to be my own again? Tellme that!"

"I can't tell you anything, " said Marie, beginning to cry. 

"Tears again!" he groaned. "Always this blasted tap-turning if you aska woman a lucid question! Don't you see what you're making life forme? Don't you see the eternal drag you're putting on my wheel? I neverdrink, I never play cards, I don't do what any other fellow under thesun would expect to do; I give you all I can--every penny's gone inthis awful domesticity. Domesticity? Slavery, I call it! What more canI do? What more do you expect? You ask for a perambulator as if itwere a sixpenny-ha'penny toy! What would a perambulator cost?"

She retained control enough to reply:

"I--I have a catalogue. The one I've marked--I'd thought of--is--isthree pounds ten. "

Osborn threw away restraint. 

"Three pounds ten!" he cried. "Within ten bob of a week's salary! Doyou realise what you're asking? My God, women have a cheek. You bleeda man and bleed him until--until he don't know where to turn. It'sask, ask, ask--"

Then Marie also flung off restraint and gave all her pent-up nervesplay. They faced each other like furies, he red and grim, she shakenand shrill. 

"Ask, ask, ask! And what has marriage ever given me? Look at me! I washappy till I married you! I never knew what it was to be so poorand--and grudged till I'd married you! I didn't know what marriagewas. I didn't know I'd be hungry and worried--yes, hungry!--and madeashamed to ask for every penny that I couldn't get without asking. Whycan't I get it? Why, because you took me away from my job and marriedme! I cook for you, and sew and sweep and dust for you, and you takeit all as a matter of course. All I've given up for you you take as amatter of course!

"All I've suffered for you you take as a matter of course . . . You_men!_"

"I didn't know what it'd be like to have a baby, or, God knows, I'dnever have had one--"

"Be quiet!" shouted Osborn. "Be quiet!"

But she raved on:

"No, I wouldn't! I wouldn't, I tell you! What do you expect of women?You expect us to want babies and bear them in all that--hell, and bepleased to have them; and--and to put up with begging from you forthem! And you don't care how weak we are--how our backs ache; youdon't care if the baby goes out or stays in--if _I_ go out orstay in. It's your child, isn't it? It's not all _my_ fault wehad it, is it? There's a lucid question for _you_! Answer it!"

"I will do no such thing!" he cried angrily. "You ought to be ashamedof yourself--a woman--a _woman_ suggesting she doesn't want ababy!"

"I didn't say it! I suggest I don't want one of yours!"

"My God!" said Osborn, recoiling. 

Marie grew ice-cold when she had said a thing that she would havethought impossible to say; but there was a keen triumph in theice-coldness. She had silenced him. 

"Isn't married life ugly?" she asked. "Isn't it little and mean andsordid and stingy and unjust? You create a condition which will tie meto the house; you are angry with the condition because it's expensive;you're angry with me for being house-tied. Can I help it? Can I helpanything? Do you think I don't _want_ theatres and to go out todinner with you as I used to? The baby's yours, isn't he, as well asmine?"

"Marie, " said Osborn, "Marie--"

He searched for things to say. 

"I wish I had never married you--I wish I had never married at all, "said Marie. "Men won't understand; they're impatient, they're brutes!And you haven't answered my question yet. "

Osborn went out of the flat. 

The inevitable answer of the goaded man--anger, silence andretreat--cried aloud to her. 

She was afraid of herself. 

What terrible things she had said--she, a little, new, young wife andmother!

She spoke out into the stillness, shocked, appealing, still tremblingwith her rage. 

"Oh, God! Oh, God!. . . Oh, God, help me!"

CHAPTER XI

THE BANGED DOOR

When Julia had left the Kerrs' flat and was turning out of thebuilding into the windy street, she met Desmond Rokeby about to enter. Her handsome face was grim beneath her veil and her eyes snapped. Asshe pulled up short and stood in Rokeby's path, she expressed to himthe idea of a very determined obstacle. 

"How nice to meet you!" he cried goodhumouredly. 

"I'm glad I've met you, " she replied. 

Rokeby surveyed her quizzically. "What an admission, " he said, "froman arch-enemy! You _are_ the enemy of us all, aren't you? Isthere anything I can do for you?"

"Where were you going?" Julia countered. 

"To No. 30. "

"Then--yes--you can do something for me. You can go away again. "

"Are they out?" said Rokeby; "are they ill? What's the mystery?"

She looked up and down the road; she gave him the impression that shestamped her feet and frowned, though to appearances she did neither. She ordered:

"Don't loiter here. Osborn--Mr. Kerr'll be home directly, and if hesees you he'll take you in, won't he?"

"Probably, I should say. "

"Then come away. "

"If I may walk a little way with you. "

"I don't care where you walk with me, " Julia replied vigorously, "ifit isn't into Marie's flat. "

She set a brisk pace down the opposite side of the road, as ifassuming that Osborn might pass them unnoticing on the other, andRokeby kept step unprotestingly. "It must be after six o'clock, " hesaid presently. 

"It is, " she replied. 

"Which is your way home?"

Julia described her route with a brevity characteristic of her. 

He slackened pace, so that she looked round at him, impatientlyquestioning. 

"Look here, Miss Winter, " he coaxed, "don't go home. Stay out and dinewith me. Of course we're mere strangers, but we're both soemancipated, aren't we? No, emancipated's an out-of-date word. We'vepassed that, haven't we, long ago? We're--I dunno what we are; there'sno limit to us. Isn't it jolly? So do come into town and dine withme. "

"I think I'd like to, thanks, " said Julia; "I'm not quite sure. "

"Why aren't you quite sure?"

"I might be bored with you. How do I know?"

Rokeby looked at her with an astonished respect and a glim of hissaving humour. "So you might; er--I hadn't thought of it; but 'pon myword, I'll do my best. Won't you come if I guarantee that?"

And he wanted her to come, oddly. 

"Thanks, " said Julia, "I will. "

"Queer thing, " Rokeby thought in his surprised soul, "when a girl allon her own in this hard world hesitates to come out to a good dinnerwith not a bad fellow in case she might be bored. "

"I know what you're thinking, " said Julia calmly; "you're thinking--oryou are _almost_--that it was nearly a bit of cheek on my part. Idon't blame you. You're spoilt, all of you. The girls you take outearn their dinners and stalls too conscientiously; no matter how dullyou are, they take pains to shine. Frankly, if _you_ take_me_ out, _you've_ got to shine. I demand it. And you'd besurprised at the number of invitations an exacting thing like megets. "

"No, I shouldn't, " said Rokeby softly, bending his head to look with anew interest at her face. "That's sheer cleverness, that is; that'sbrilliance. You've seized it. A woman should have confidence to demandand get. "

"Women are too humble. "

"I never found them so, " Rokeby denied respectfully. 

"Well, half of them are too humble, and the other half areslave-drivers. If a girl's got to choose one or the other, she'dbetter drive. "

"That's awf'ly sound, " said Rokeby. 

They neared a taxicab rank, and the first driver watched theirapproach with inquiring signal. "Cab!" Rokeby sang out, and the manstarted his engine. 

"Where are we going?" Julia asked. 

"Where you like, " Desmond answered, "only let's start there. "

He opened the door, she passed in, and he directed, "Piccadilly; andI'll tell you just where, presently. "

He followed Julia in, and they were away, over suburban roads darkerthan the streets of the West. 

Rokeby felt a certain triumph in capturing Julia. Besides her modernfighting quality, to which he was not entirely antagonistic, herealised that she was a pleasure to the eye, a well-tailored, handsomegirl, town-bred, town-poised, of the neat, trim type so approved bythe male eye. She knew her value too. She made a man think. Cheapattentions she would have handed back as trash, without thanks, to thedonor. She conferred a favour, but would never receive one. Herself-assurance was no less than royal, and a word or touch inviolation would have been stamped a rank impertinence. Rokeby, who hadmade the same pleasant uses of taxicabs as most men about town, knewall this with a half-sigh. 

"Where would you like to dine?" he asked. "What kind of a place do youlike?"

"A quiet place, to-night, " said Julia; "it's better for talking, andthis evening I've got to talk to someone. "

Whereby she flattered Rokeby more than by any degree of easyflirtation which other women might have permitted, as they sped alongthe ever-brightening streets. 

"We'll go to the Pall Mall, if you like, Miss Winter; it's little, it's good, it's quiet; interesting people go there; we'll make twomore. How about that?"

"It'll do excellently. "

"We shall probably get a balcony table if all those downstairs arebooked. "

As Rokeby said, they were in time for a balcony table, and he ordereddinner and wine before recurring to his former question. 

"What was all the mystery about No. 30?"

"I don't call it a mystery; it was just a very ordinary domesticproposition; I didn't want them to be interrupted this evening, because, you see--you will laugh--"

"No, I swear I won't; do tell me. "

"Marie wants to ask for a perambulator. "

"'Him'?"

"Yes, him. Who's always 'him' to the household--the husband, thetyrant, the terror. Ugh!"

"Oh, come, Miss Winter. Osborn Kerr--I've known him for years; there'snothing of the tyrant and the terror about him. Why this embroidery ofthe sad tale?"

"Well, why was Marie afraid to ask him, then?"

"I don't know anything about it. I'm at a disadvantage with you, itseems. "

"I'm quite willing to tell you; that's what I'm dining with you for, isn't it?"

"Is it?" said Rokeby, with a very charming smile which but few womenknew. 

She hurried on: "Yes, it is. You see, I didn't want you to come in andspoil it all, prevent Marie from asking her husband for theperambulator. "

"You were awf'ly thoughtful, and I'm sure I didn't want to chip in atthe wrong moment; but, I say, would it have mattered so much? BecauseI'd love to know why; you're interesting me, you know. She could haveasked him another time, couldn't she?"

"You see, she was all ready to-night. "

"'All ready'?"

"She put on the frock she was married in; and there was the whippedcream he's so fond of, with a cherry pie; and it all seemed sopropitious that I thought it would be a pity if you spoilt it. "

"You're right. I wouldn't have cut in for the world. But, I say, " hecried gleefully, "what guile! What plotfulness! There's no gettingeven with a woman, is there? Little Mrs. Osborn and you lay your headstogether, and she puts on her wedding frock--"

Julia eyed him with a steely disdain. 

"Kindly tell me why a woman should trouble herself to make plans tocoax her husband?"

"Ask me another. How do I know? She _did_ it, didn't she?"

"Yes, because he was one of those beastly 'hims, ' to be toadied andcajoled and fussed into a good humour before his wife dare ask for acarriage for the baby that belongs to both of them. "

"Oh, I see! I see! I say, I'm stupid, aren't I?"

"I'll forgive you your stupidity if you promise me never to marry andmake any woman miserable. "

Rokeby became slightly nettled. 

"Why shouldn't I marry and make some woman happy?" he demanded. 

"Ask _me_ another; you men don't seem to, do you?"

"You're not very sympathetic to--"

"Nor you. Look here! Bread and butter, and candles and bootblacking, and laundering, and expenses for a baby when you've got one, are alleveryday things, aren't they? If a woman's got to fuss and plan andcry and worry and fight just every day for the everyday things, islife worth while at all? Isn't a girl like me, in full possession ofher health, mistress of her own life, filling her own pocket, betteroff than a girl like Marie who's married and lost it all?"

"_Are_ you?" he demanded, stirred enough to look right intoJulia's eyes; and he saw what deep eyes they were, and what sinceretrouble and question lay in them. 

She fenced doggedly: "I don't see why Marie should be made wretched;she's only twenty-six. Is she to have that kind of fuss every day ofher life?"

"She won't want a new perambulator every day, we'll hope. "

"Oh . . . Don't be cheap! You know what I mean. Why can't men meetdomestic liabilities fairly and squarely with their wives? Why mustthey be coaxed to look at a bill which they authorise their wives toincur? Why is a man vexed because he's got to pay the butcher, when heeats meat every day of his life?"

"Since you ask, my dear girl, I'll tell you. People are too selfish tomarry nowadays and make a good job of it. Most men always were; butthen women used to go to the wall and go unprotestingly. Nowsomething's roused them to jib. They're making the hell of a row. Theywon't stand it; and nobody else can. So what's to be done?"

"Is this marriage?" Julia asked coldly. 

"No, " said Rokeby, "it's war. "

"It ought not to be. "

"What do you suggest?"

"N-nothing. "

"Nor does anyone else, " Rokeby stated. 

They were through the first course, and he replenished her glass withsparkling hock. "Eat, drink, and be merry, " he counselledlachrymosely, "for to-morrow we may be married. "

"Never for me. "

"That's rash. People are caught--oh! it's the very devil to keep outof the net. "

"What will be the end of things?"

"What things?"

"Marie's and Osborn's. "

"My dear Miss Winter, you exaggerate. They'll shake down, and that'sall. "

"Will they be happy?"

"You'll have to ask them that, later. But, you see, I know OsbornKerr, and he'll make the best of it like other people. I wish I couldconvince you. Don't distress yourself over the normal troubles ofnormal people. "

But Julia still worried on: "She looked so white and tired to-day;she'd been carrying that great baby about round the shops, and she'snot strong yet. "

"Can't the baby stay peaceably at home?"

"Then she's got to stay too. Where she goes the baby must go. She'sgiven up going out at all except just for her marketing. "

"Well, " said Rokeby, rubbing his head, "I don't know, I'm sure, whatyou or I can do. We'd better leave it all alone. "

"If I hadn't spent everything I had in the bank only yesterday for anew suit I'd send her a baby-carriage to-morrow. It'll be three weeksbefore I've put by enough again. "

"Don't rob yourself, " said Rokeby quickly, with a softening face. "Look here, let me know what happens, will you?"

"About the perambulator?"

"Ah!"

"Will you be fairy godfather, then?"

"If you'd like me to. "

"Oh, I would! You--you--"

"What am I?"

"You dear!"

"'Rah! 'Rah!" cried Rokeby, "shake hands on that!" She laid in hisfrankly a short and capable hand. "I'm not a 'him, ' am I? Oh, say I'mnot. "

"You're not--yet. You're a dear. "

"Am now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. "

"Amen, " said Julia, twinkling. 

"Here are _pêches melba_, " said Rokeby, "women always like them. I'm glad they're on our programme to-night. "

"I adore them. "

"You might try to remember, before we leave the subject, " Rokebysuggested, "that the prospects of these 'hims' aren't very rosy eithersometimes. You see it comes hard on a man, though doubtless he's ablack-hearted scoundrel to admit it, when he marries and has tostretch an income, which was perfectly palmy in the bachelor days, tomeet the needs of two, or three, or however many it may ultimatelyhave to meet. He can't help a yelp now and then. It's a horrid sound, but it relieves him. The only remedy I can suggest for the existingstate of affairs is that all wives of over a year's standing shouldpack cotton wool in their ears. Eh? That's brains, isn't it? Kindlyapplaud. "

"'M . . . " said Julia, tightening her lips. 

"Osborn entered marriage with the most exalted expectations, " Rokebywent on. 

"So did Marie. "

"I assure you I never knew a chap more in love. "

"Nor I a girl. "

"Oh, chuck it!" begged Rokeby, laughing. "Do chuck it, will you? Thenyou'll be a dear too. Look here, wouldn't you like to go on somewhereafter this? I can telephone from here for seats. "

But she would not. So they lingered on for awhile, talking and smokingover their coffee; and at last, when Julia looked across the room atthe clock over the big mirrors, she was astonished and half vexed tofind how much time had slipped by. Then she insisted on going, butRokeby insisted, too, upon his escort all the way home, and she didnot gainsay him. As he lifted her furs over her straight shoulders, waving away the waiter who hastened forward for the service, hemurmured:

"Were you bored?"

"I've loved it, " said Julia graciously, for she could be generous. 

They walked home, according to her wishes, for it was a perfect night, and she a robust young creature who loved to give her energy a fling. She walked with a peculiar effect of hope and buoyancy, in spite ofher habit of sombre sayings, and Rokeby found a pleasure in notingher. She looked what she was, a woman who had never yet encountereddefeat. 

This did not rouse in him the hunting desire to run her to earth, orto the dead wall against which she would sturdily plant that fine backof hers, and to vanquish her vainglory; but it made him softer, moreprotective of her than he had felt before; it made him wish thatalways she would keep this spirit and courage which burned like abrave candle in the mists of life. As they said good-bye upon theimposing pillar-guarded steps of her boarding-house--called in modernfashion a Ladies' Club--he held her hand longer than he had everimagined he might want to hold the hand of this dragon of a girl. 

"Be happy, " he adjured her, "don't take other folks' troubles uponyou; let 'em settle their own. Haven't you enough to do?"

"I always feel that there is no end to what I could do, " Juliaconfessed. 

"Yes, you generous thing!" Rokeby cried, "but don't abuse yourself. There--you don't want my advice, do you? Forgive me! And thank you somuch for an interesting evening. And--and--good night. "

He stood at the bottom of the steps watching reluctantly while Juliaentered. She had a latchkey which, ordinary possession as it was, seemed a symbol of her freedom. While he would have granted itgenerously, the freedom somehow piqued Rokeby a little. He stoodsmiling rather sadly till she shut the door. 

A scurrying housemaid paused in her rush upstairs to say:

"Oh, miss! You were rung up on the 'phone just now, and I took themessage. From a Mrs. Kerr, miss, and she would be glad if you could goround at once. "

Julia stood still for a moment or two, keeping her hands very still inher muff. "I expect . . . " she began to think. Then she rushed for thecab-whistle, which hung in the hall, pulled open the door, andwhistled until a cab came creeping round the corner, feeling in itsblind way for the invisible fare. She ran down the steps, signalling, and it spurted up. 

"Number Thirty Welham Mansions, Hampstead, " she said as she jumped in. 

It was an extravagant method of travel--being some distance toHampstead--for a young woman earning three pounds ten a week andspending most of it gorgeously, but she did not care. The fourshillings were a nothing compared to Marie's need of her. She passedthe time in speculations of wrathful trend, until they pulled up inthe quiet road from which she had so recently driven away with DesmondRokeby. 

Marie opened the door to her--Marie with a face like white marble andburning eyes. Her dead composure was wonderful and scornful, but Juliawould have none of it; as soon as the door was shut upon them and theystood there, between the cream walls and black etchings of the hall, she seized Marie in her arms, exclaiming:

"My poor dear! What's up? Has he--"

For a long while Marie wept on Julia's breast, before the ashes of thedining-room fire, while the clock with the kind voice ticked musicallyon and on, and the room grew chillier, and herself more tired; but atlast she could tell all. 

"We--we've had--an awful--quarrel. "

"Oh dear!" Julia commented, "oh dear!" She did not know what else tosay. 

"I asked him--about the pram. "

"Yes, yes! As you said you would. "

"He is so angry, so unjust. "

"My poor old kiddie!"

"And I was so angry, perhaps I was unjust too. "

"No, no, you weren't, " said Julia viciously. "I'm sure of it. Nothingcould be unjust to _him_. He deserves it all. "

"No, he doesn't You don't understand. But he wasn't fair to-night; hewas so angry, and it wasn't my fault. Do they think we _like_asking, I wonder? And I don't know what I said, Julia, but I know Imade him think I didn't want baby. "

"Well?"

"But I _do_ want him, Julia. I don't know what I'd do withouthim; I love him so much--they just grow into your life, Julia, babiesdo. He's so sweet. "

"Course you love him. I know that. So does Osborn, so don't cry. "

"He said I ought to be ashamed of myself. "

"Oh, indeed? _In_deed! And may one ask why?"

"B--because I asked for a pram, I s'pose. "

"Really! Indeed! I'd like to--"

"Perhaps it wasn't just that. I don't know--but he got so angry andsaid he couldn't afford it, and I said, 'P--p--perhaps on theinstalment p--p--plan?' and he said he was sick of instalments andwhen was his money ever going to be his own again? And I can't helpit, Julia, can I? I haven't money of my own. And then I got angry andsaid things; and he said I ought to be ashamed of myself. "

"But aren't you going to have the pram?"

"I don't know. I don't expect so. He went out without saying. "

"That's like a man. Go out and slam the door if you don't want to givean answer!"

"Julia, I--I'm afraid I hurt his feelings. I made him say, 'My God!'"

"That's nothing. They speak of God like a man in the street. Thatmeans nothing. "

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, you poor lamb? I'm as sure as sure. "

"Do you think you know much about men, Julia?"

"I know too much, thank you. "

"I hope you didn't mind coming here again? I didn't know what to do; Iwas so wretched, and there was no one to speak to; no one to tell; soI thought of you. "

"That's right, my dear. Always think of me, if I can do anything. Youknow I'll always come. "

"You _are_ a darling, Julia. "

The two girls hugged each other strenuously. 

Marie said with a break yet in her voice, "It seemed to me I was beingquite reasonable. "

"There are all sorts of men, " said Julia, "kind men and unkind; meanmen and generous; good-tempered and bad-tempered; every sort except areasonable one. There's never been a reasonable man born yet. "

When Julia had pronounced this dictum, she stroked Marie's hair, andsaid: "You know, baby, you ought to go to bed like the other baby. You're tired out and your young man'll be home soon, I've no doubt. "

"I don't suppose he'll be later than eleven. "

"Well, I'd rather not be still here when he comes, thank you. "

"Oh, you wouldn't say I'd told you anything!"

"I won't give myself a chance. I'll put you to bed and then I'll gohome. "

Julia was like a mother to Marie when she helped her to undress, andtucked her up in the bed beside the infant's cot. And when Marie askedanxiously, with her mind still troubled: "Julia, _you_ know thatI love baby, don't you?" she was warm in her assurances. 

"Would you mind, " said Marie, "making up the dining-room fire alittle, please, dear, in case Osborn is cold when he comes in?"

Julia stroked on her gloves slowly. "Certainly, " she replied, after apause. 

"I should only put on a couple of lumps, dear, " said Marie from thebed. 

"Righto!" Julia answered at the door. "Good night, babies!"

Very softly she closed the door and left them. 

She stood for a few moments in the dining-room trying to persuadeherself to make up the fire for Osborn. She hated doing it; shegrudged him his fire and his armchair and pipe and the comfort ofthose carpet slippers she saw behind the coal-box. But at last shetook up the tongs, saying to herself sourly:

"It's for Marie, after all, because she asked me; not for him. "

She chose her lumps of coal carefully, the two biggest, heavy enoughto crush out altogether the tiny glow of the embers which remained;she battened them down and remained to assure herself that they wouldnot burn. 

"He won't be able to say the fire wasn't made up, " she thought. 

She placed Osborn's carpet slippers carefully in front of it. 

"He can't say he wasn't made comfortable when he came in. "

She went out, with a small sense of satisfaction, and called softlyalong the corridor, "Good night, babies, " before she left the flat. Itwas very, very cold, and she was more than ready for her own bed. 

She travelled homewards upon the Tube. 

Before she slept, however, Julia had a letter to write, to DesmondRokeby; she addressed it to his business address, which she happenedto know, and marked it _Very urgent_. The contents were as urgentas the instruction upon the envelope, and once again that night sheleft the Ladies' Club to post the letter at the pillar-box at thecorner. It would be cleared at midnight, and Rokeby should get hisnews by the first post in the morning. 

Then Julia Winter slept; but although her head was full of two babies, a grown-girl one and a tiny weakling one, together in a soiled pinkroom, it was not of them that she dreamed. She was sitting once moreat a balcony table in the quiet red restaurant with the big mirrors, facing an unusual kind of man who cared as little what she thought ofhim as she cared what he thought of her; the restaurant was warm androsy, and they drifted upon the flying hours, like two voyagers upon ahappy river. 

CHAPTER XII

BEHIND THE VEIL

Marie heard Osborn come in and go to the dining-room and hit anunresponsive mass of coal vigorously, but she gave no sign. In thedarkness she listened for all the sounds she had learned to know sowell; his movements in the dressing-room, his splashing as he washedface and hands in the bathroom, his pat-pat tread in carpet slippersalong the corridor to their door. To-night he paused here, as iflistening; and it seemed as if her heart paused, too, while she alsolistened for him. But he spoke no word, and she spoke none, and thebaby slept, so presently she heard the cautious turning of the handleand his careful entry. 

She feigned sleep. 

He knew, by tiny signs he had learnt to discover, that she was notasleep, but he feigned belief that she was. 

His bed creaked to tell her that he was getting into it, in thedarkness, by her side. 

Both Marie and Osborn were still angry, sore, insulted and resentful, and, like other married people in small homes, they must intrude uponeach other intimately, sleep side by side, wake side by side, andremain as closely conscious of each other as if they dwelt together, by mutual desire, in a perpetual garden of roses. True, there was abed in Osborn's dressing-room, but it was an uncomfortable bed of thefold-up family, and when he came in to-night it was folded against thewall, and he did not know exactly where its particular blankets werekept. He looked at it, thinking, "God! If I could only sleep here fora night or two!" But he allowed himself to be daunted by the problemof the blankets, and he went, as usual, to the room he shared withMarie. 

But each was too angry to speak, and the presence of each was fuel tothe other's anger. 

Osborn was wakened in the morning by Marie's attentions to the baby. Though he had gone to sleep turned as completely away from her aspossible, in the night he had rolled over, and now he watched herquietly and sulkily in the grey dawn, with just one eye opened uponher above the rim of his bedclothes. If she looked he meant to closehis eyes again quickly, pretending sleep. 

But there was something about the frailty of her figure as she sat upin bed, turning to the table with the spirit-lamp and saucepan uponit, a quality of wistful charm in her little undressed head, whichwent towards softening him. She was quiet, too; she spoke no word, norlooked towards him. He watched her patiently waiting for the boilingof the milk; he watched the care with which she mixed the food; andthen she got out of bed, not minding the stark cold, and gave thebottle to the drowsy baby. She bent over it for a minute, smoothingits downy head with her light fingers; then she propped the bottlecomfortably for the baby, by some ingenious management of itsbed-clothing, and looked at the clock by her bedside. After she hadlooked at the clock she stood hesitating for awhile and he knew whatshe was deciding. 

She wanted five minutes more of that warm bed after a night broken, asusual, by the baby's demands; but it was time to get up and sweep andcook and light fires and lay Osborn's breakfast-table. 

After all, it was Osborn who broke the silence between them, sulkily. 

"I should give yourself five more minutes; you'll freeze out there. "

Marie turned round quickly and looked at his long, comfortable outlineunder his pink quilt. She hesitated, then spoke in her natural voice, which he was secretly relieved to hear:

"It's half-past six; I'll have to dress. "

"Poor old girl!" Osborn mumbled from his pillow. After she had gonequietly out, and he listened to the sounds of running water in thebathroom, and after she had come back, and he watched her again, oneeye cocked furtively over the blankets, while she moved about quickly, he thought and considered and argued with himself about her. But, after all, she did as other women do, didn't she? She had a home and ahusband and child, and she was bound to look after them, wasn't she?He gave her all he could, and sometimes it seemed to him--though hedidn't mean to grouse--that she might have managed better. His mother, for instance, grown grey and quiet in the service of himself and hisfather, had worked wonders with the limited family money. 

Had she been still alive, she might have given Marie a few wrinkles, perhaps. . . . 

There is little doubt that Mrs. Kerr the departed could have given heryoung daughter-in-law a few wrinkles had she met her--wrinkles of themost unprofitable kind upon her fair face; but as it was, Mrs. Kerrsenior lay quietly afar off from No. 30 Welham Mansions, impotent toreform, and Osborn lay thinking his thoughts in silence while Marie, having dressed to petticoat and camisole, wreathed up her long andlustrous hair. 

The baby sucked intermittently at his bottle. 

When Marie had put on her blouse and skirt, and a pinafore to protectthem, she went out without further conversation. Osborn wondered alittle whether she sulked, but she was not sulking; she was onlyoccupied much as he was, in thinking and considering and arguing withherself about him. She was modern enough to remain proud and criticaland impatient after domestic experiences which would have gone fartowards cowing the generation of women before her. Her mother hadbowed beneath such experiences without so much as an inquiry orexpostulation. As Marie hurried about with brush and duster, withblack-lead and fire-fuel, as she stood over the purring stove, andwatched toast and eggs and coffee come to their various perfections, each over its ring of flame, she was absorbed in wondering:

"It _is_ I who am right? It's I who have the harder time? It'sthe woman upon whom everything falls? But can't it all be put rightsomehow? Couldn't I make him see?"

Something definite emerged from her prospecting, at least; the resolveto seek an understanding with Osborn, not now, over breakfast with itstime-limit and its haste, but perhaps to-night, after dinner, whenhe'd come in, and been fed and rested, and had put on his warmslippers. She faced Osborn over the breakfast-table with a brightnesswhich he was relieved to see; but after he had noted it with inwardapproval, he hid himself behind his newspaper; he wanted to saylittle; to get away very, very quietly. 

He had known many men who had to fly before the domestic sirocco; hehad laughed at and despised them in his heart. But--poor beggars! Nodoubt they had hidden themselves behind newspapers with a child-likefaith in the impenetrability of the shield, even as he was hiding. 

Poor beggars!

It was no better than the ostrich habit of tucking your head into thesand, to crowd yourself behind your morning paper. You felt awfullynervy behind it, and you kept a scowl handy. There was something inthe tension which made you bolt your good food quickly, indifferent asyour lunch would be presently, and which made you glad when you wereready to rise, and remark with a forced _bonhomie_:

"Well, so long, girlie! I must be off. "

Marie followed Osborn out into the narrow hall, where now faint daubsmarked the cream distemper, and helped him on with his coat, and foundhis gloves and muffler. "It's cold, dear, " she said solicitously, "wrap up well. "

"Oh, that's all right! Take care of yourself and baby. Good-bye!"

He stooped and kissed her lips quickly, avoiding her eyes, and wentout whistling. A forlornness overtook her; she ran back through thedining-room to the window, and, leaning out, watched for him to emergefrom the doorway below; when he came, and started down the streettowards the tramcar terminus, she made ready to wave as she used to doshould he look up. 

But he did not look up, as he strode purposefully away. A few monthsago he would have lagged a little, glancing up and waving frequentlybefore he finally disappeared. This morning as she watched the thoughtsmote: "When did he forget to wave to me? When did we leave off--allthis?"

She remembered it was when she began to be so really busy, after thebaby came. Baby was crying sometimes as they finished breakfast; shemust hurry to him; it was time for his bath; he must have his bath, mustn't he? She couldn't help that. But she rather thought thatperhaps this was the beginning of the end of all those dear smiles andsalutes right down the street back to the girl above. Perhaps Osbornhad looked up in vain many mornings, hoping to see her leaning outthere, and at last had ceased to mind whether she were there or not. 

A surprise came for Marie after lunch. She was making herself ready tocarry her baby and her basket to the open-air market a street away, where the thriftier housewives of the neighbourhood shopped, when adelivery carman left at her door the handsome baby-carriage whichJulia's note had sent Desmond Rokeby out post-haste to buy. Such aperambulator Marie had never hoped for, nor dreamed of; it boastedevery luxury of contrivance, from the umbrella basket, slung to thehandles, to its C-springs and its big, smooth-rolling tyres. In colourit was French-grey, extremely dainty; and it came with Desmond's loveto his godson and a tactfully expressed hope that his gift had notbeen forestalled. So Marie put her baby in, and her basket, too; andafter she had finished admiring her pink-and-white son among thelavender upholstery, she wheeled him out proudly to the open-airmarket, where the equipage drew forth delighted comments from thevendors who knew her well. She did not come straight home, as she hadto do when carrying the baby; but, her purchases finished, she turnedtowards the Heath, and wheeled about proudly there for a while, envying no one, not the smart nurses who propelled their smartperambulators, nor the few mothers who strolled beside them. She feltthat, with the finest baby in town in a French-grey and lavenderchariot, she could meet and beat any turnout of the kind. 

Marie sang during the rest of the afternoon when she reached homeagain. She sang while she made a cup of tea; sang while she put herboy to bed, and set about her preparations for her husband's return;he heard her singing when he fitted his latchkey unobtrusively in thelock, and stepped, still furtively, into the hall. He breathed freelyagain and told himself that the storm had passed. 

He sat down by the fire, before which his wife had set his slippers, but he did not unlace his boots. He was hungry; he cast a short lookover the dinner-table to judge, by its arrangement, something of whathe might be given to eat. Before he had made a guess, Marie ran in. 

"Guess!" she cried, "guess what's happened!"

"Dunno, old girl, " said Osborn. 

"That dear darling Mr. Rokeby has sent us the _most gorgeous_baby-carriage. "

"The devil he has!" said Osborn, with deep feeling, straightening hisshoulders as if a burden had been lifted from them. 

"It's down in the lobby with the other prams; you must go down and seeit. "

"I will after dinner. By Jove, that's good of Rokeby! I wonder whatmade him think of it. "

"I can't imagine; he _is_ thoughtful, isn't he?"

"What's it like?"

"It's pale grey, with ball bearings; and C-springs, and an umbrellabasket. There's no enamel; it's all nickel. And the upholstery. . . . "

"By Jove, Desmond's done the youngster proud, what?"

"We couldn't _possibly_ have bought such a carriage for him, Osborn!"

Osborn began to feel flattered as well as pleased. He had alwaysnoticed, of course, the very particular attraction and beauty and theearly cleverness of his son, but he had not guessed that the littlebeggar had so impressed that confirmed bachelor. 

"Rokeby thinks no end of the kid, you know, " he said, sitting down tothe table. 

"That's not to be wondered at, is it?" replied the enthusiasticmother. 

Osborn caught her hand as she passed by him and kissed it. 

"I've been thinking about you--about us--to-day, " he confided. 

"Have you?" she said timidly. 

"We--we were both, " Osborn hesitated, "both a bit--mad last night, weren't we?"

He pressed her hand before he relinquished it so that she mightproceed to the kitchen to dish up the dinner. And she went with alighter heart because of his affection. 

Opposite him, beneath the candles which she still lighted withpleasure each night, she regarded him with a new earnestness. Thequarrel was over, it seemed; but it had opened for her a door throughwhich she had never passed before, the door into the darkness of humanhearts, and she felt as if she would never forget that horrific stepacross the unveiled threshold. She watched Osborn steadily yetunobtrusively while his mind was given to the meal; she saw him eatwith a great hunger, and the rather tired look which had marked hisface when he first came in disappeared as he ate. Men who perforce eatlunch very frugally look forward keenly to a good meal, and Osborn hadno eyes or words for Marie until the edge of his appetite wassatisfied. She did not yet understand this very well; she was inclinedto a slight resentment in his absorption with his dinner to theexclusion of herself. But she did not interrupt him by chatter; shejust sat there quietly observing until he should be ready for moreconversation. 

Presently she brought his coffee round to his side, and he lighted acigarette with a sigh of satisfaction. He appreciated, indefinitely, her gift of silence when a man came in sharpset for dinner; he hadspent a day among busy men, talking all the time, and he did not wishto talk any more. After all, a man came home for quiet. 

Marie had spent the day alone with the baby. There had been no voicesave her singing one uplifted in the flat since early morning; shewanted to sit with Osborn by the fire in their dear old way, and totalk and talk; and to hear him talk. After all, was not thecompanionable evening the time for which the lonely household womanlived through her silent day?

She brought her coffee to a place near him and sat down there. 

"Osborn, " she said, "I was awf'ly hurt that you were so angry lastnight. I do want you to see that it isn't my fault. "

He looked at her rather appealingly. "Let's chuck it, " he suggested. 

"If you will only understand! I don't believe men think; but if you_would_ think over it for just a few minutes, dear old boy, you'dknow that I'm just as careful as a woman can be. You used to give methirty shillings a week for the housekeeping before we had baby; andI've never asked you for any more since, have I? And his food's awf'lyexpensive too. I manage on just the same, Osborn. "

"Yes, yes, " he said, moving uneasily, "but where's all this leading? Imean--"

"It isn't leading anywhere. I only wanted you to see that I can't helpanything. "

After a pause, with a little line between his brows, he said:

"No, I know you can't. It's all right. You said some perfectly awfulthings last night--"

"So did you, Osborn. "

He rose slowly. "Well, dear, we won't go over it. We've seen thingswith the gilt off; and that's that. Anyhow, there's nothing to worryabout, is there? We're about straight with the world, though it meansevery penny earmarked before I earn it. And there's no question ofbuying a pram now, thank God!"

He turned away and searched on the mantelpiece for matches. "It mademe shudder, " he said very gravely, "three-pound-ten! Four pounds!After all the expenses I'd had. "

"Well. . . . " she said, swallowing hard, "well, come and see Mr. Rokeby'spresent. It's a ten-guinea carriage, Osborn; nothing less. "

He swung round and looked at her, palsied in amazement. 

"Ten guineas! _Ten!_ Good God! Why . . . It takes me the best partof three weeks to earn what that baby of yours just rides about in!"

"Aren't you coming down to see it?"

"I--I shall see it as I go out, thanks. "

"When you--go out!"

She looked down quickly and noted that he had not taken off his boots. 

She said in a changed voice: "You're going out?"

"I promised a man to look in and see the show at The Happy with himto-night. Just in the prom, you know. We haven't got stalls likegiddy bachelors!"

"Osborn, can't you stay in? It--it's lonely all day, and I lookforward to your coming home. "

"You didn't seem to look forward very kindly last night. "

She cried with hot resentment: "I thought you didn't want thatmentioned again!"

"Oh, very well! And I shall be in to-morrow night; won't that do? Aman can't be always tied up to the kitchen table, you know. Besides, Ipromised Dicky Vendo I'd go; his wife's away, and he's free. "

"Yours isn't away. "

"But she's been a damned little shrew, and doesn't deserve me to stayin for her. There! that's what you get by arguing. " He laughed a laughof vexation as much at his own ill-temper as at her pertinacity. 

"Very well, " she said, drawing back. 

The light in the room was subdued, for the candles had not yet givenplace to the incandescent glare. He cast a glance at her face, but shehad withdrawn to the shadow. 

"Well, " he hesitated, "night-night, in case you don't sit up. "

"Good night, " she replied. "I shan't sit up. "

"You might make up the fire before you go to bed, though, there's adear girl. "

She did not answer, and he went out; she followed him to the doorway, and stood there watching him put on his overcoat and muffler again. His pipe was between his teeth; he removed it for a second to kiss hercheek hastily, then restored it. With a hysterical anger heldfeverishly in check, she thought that male imperturbability, maleselfishness, were incredible. 

"Night-night!" he said again, going out. "I'll bring you a programme. "

The door shut. She was alone. She advanced passionately upon thestrewn dinner-table; it waited there to be cleared by the work of herhands, as imperturbable as he. 

She dashed off the candle-shades first. 

"What a day!" she gasped. 

Early morning and the awakening in the cold, the brushing of gratesand the lighting of fires, the sweeping and cooking, to get a man offwarmed and comfortable to business; the long, long hours of silenceand domestic tasks, waiting for his return; his return to his food;his departure again; a desolate evening of silence and domestictasks--these were that span of hope and promise called a day. 

Married life!

CHAPTER XIII

"THE VERY DEVIL"

When spring had passed, and part of the summer, the Osborn Kerrs didas all their neighbours did; they packed up their best clothes, foldedthe baby's cot, swathed the ten-guinea perambulator, and with the babyand his cumbersome impedimenta, made an exhausting effort and went tothe sea. 

They did not go to the sea altogether lightly; it had cost a greatdeal of thought and arithmetic and discussion as to a stopping-place. Osborn was keen on a boarding-house; he knew a jolly one where he hadstayed before, but Marie vetoed that. They wouldn't have babies inboarding-houses; they wouldn't like her keeping the perambulatorthere, and wheeling it through the hall; likewise they wouldn't likeher intruding into the back regions with it. She knew that what onedid with a young family was to take rooms, and cater for oneself. Sothey wrote to engage rooms, and after much correspondence found whatwould suit their purse, and started for a week by the sea. 

The baby fretted a little during its unaccustomed travelling, and, fretting, fretted its parents. Osborn was dimly annoyed with Marie fornot being able to keep the baby up to the best standard of infantilebehaviour, feeling that the things he was called upon to do, in apublic railway carriage, made him look a fool; and Marie was hurt withOsborn that he should show so little sympathy and patience. She wrote, upon arrival, a letter to Mrs. Amber, which brought her down within acouple of days, to stay at a boarding-house within a stone's throw. 

Grandmother was very good. She was always nice-tempered and kind andsoothing. In the morning she came round early to the rooms in a sidestreet, and took the baby out for his airing upon the promenade, sothat Marie and Osborn might bathe together. She it was who persuadedtheir landlady to take charge of the baby for just one hour, oneafternoon, while Marie and Osborn came to take fashionable tea withher at the boarding-house. In the evening, when the pier was lightedand the band played, and the summer life of the place was at itsgiddiest, she would arrive with her comfortable smile and her knittingto sit within earshot of her sleeping grandson while his parents wentout to enjoy themselves. 

Marie did not know what she would have done without the wise womanupon this holiday; but when they talked together she was still shy ofconfidences, and still reluctant to admit any but the most moderninterpretation of the married relationship. Mrs. Amber, however, sawall there was to see and felt no resentment about it. Things were so;and they always had been. You might be miserable if you were married, but then you would have been far more miserable if you had notmarried. She pitied all spinsters profoundly. She was glad herdaughter had found a husband and a home; and she would not havedreamed of combating Osborn. He was that strange, wilful despoticthing, a man. She would have handed him without contest that dangerousweapon of complete power over a woman and her children. Mrs. Amberpropitiated Osborn; she pleased and flattered him; and her judgment ofhim was that he was far better than he might have been. 

Grannie travelled back with them to town, and she was very usefulduring the journey. She kept a strict eye upon the hand-luggage andnursed the baby, while Marie and Osborn smiled together over thesketches in a humorous weekly. Their money was all spent, and theywere really half-relieved to be going back to the flat, where theyneed not keep up that air of being so very pleased with every detailof a rather strained holiday. They would meet other people they knew, who had similarly enjoyed themselves, and would cry:

"Have _you_ been away? We're just back. We went to Littlehamptonand had a gorgeous time! We had such awf'ly comfortable rooms, notactually _on_ the front, but within a minute's walk. We_prefer_ rooms to an hotel. We enjoyed ourselves tremendously. Where did you go?"

Mrs. Amber was with Marie a great deal during the rest of that hotsummer; she had waited for the close intimacy of the honeymoon time, of the first year, to wear away; she had bided her hour verypatiently. When the husband began--as he would--to go out for an hourafter dinner, just to meet a friend, and would stay two--three, fourhours perhaps, then the mother had come into her own again. Sittingwith the strangely-quietened Marie by the open windows of the palesitting-room--which they could use again with perfect economy duringthe summer weather--Mrs. Amber was well content with the way ofthings. She knitted placidly for baby George all the while, and Marie, who hated knitting, sewed for him. 

They were evenings such as Mrs. Amber the young wife used to spendwith her own mother, while young Mr. Amber betook himself to thestrange and unexplained haunts of men. 

And on one of these evenings, while the weather was still warm enoughto sit looking out into the darkness through the opened windows, butwhen an autumn haze had begun to hang again about the night, Marie hadsomething to tell her mother, which had blanched her cheek andmoistened her eyes all day. 

"Mother, I don't know _what_ you'll think, but--I'm going to haveanother baby. "

"Oh--my--dear!" said Mrs. Amber. 

The two women gazed into each other's eyes, and while a half-pleasedexpression stole through the solicitude in Mrs. Amber's, Marie's werewide with fear. 

"Are you sure, duck?" said the elder woman, her knitting dropped inher lap. 

"Sure, " Marie murmured hoarsely. "I've been afraid--and I waitedbefore I told you. But I'm sure. It--it'll be next summer--in the hotweather, just when we'd have been going away to the sea. We shan't beable to afford to go to Littlehampton next year. "

"An only child, " said Mrs. Amber comfortingly, "is a mistake. It'salmost cruel to have an only child. You'll be much better with twothan one. "

"How can you say so? All that to go through again--"

"Oh, duck, I know! But it won't be so bad next time; anyone'll tellyou that. Ask your doctor. "

"I shan't have the doctor till I'm obliged. "

"I'm sure Osborn would wish you to--"

"How do you know what Osborn would wish?" And she said as so manyrebellious women have said before her: "He promised I should neverhave another. He was crying. I've never told you before, but he was. He cried; and promised me. "

"Cried!" Mrs. Amber echoed aghast. "Poor fellow, oh, poor fellow!Osborn has a very good heart. The dear boy!"

"What about me, mother? Where's your sympathy for me? I cried, too. "

"We're different. "

"No, we aren't. And he _promised_. "

"Oh, my duck, " said Mrs. Amber in a voice of confidential bustle, "that's not to be depended on. Men always promise these things; I'veknown it scores of times. But it doesn't do to depend upon them, love. "

"I despise men. "

"Oh, don't say that, like Miss Winter. I never did approve of thatgirl. "

"She's wiser than I. She won't marry. "

"I guess she hasn't had the chance, " said Mrs. Amber, with thedisbelief of the old married woman in spinster charms. 

"Oh, yes, she has, mother. She's had several chances. But she knowswhen she's lucky; she's her own mistress, and she has her own moneyand her freedom. "

"She's missing a great deal; and some day she'll know it. "

"She knows it now, thank you. She knows she's missing illness and painand poverty and worry, and the whims and fancies and bad tempers of ahusband. "

Mrs. Amber said soothingly: "Now, now, my dear, you're not yourself, or you wouldn't say such things. It's every woman's duty to marry ifshe can and have children. As to your husband, it's no use expectinganything of men but what you get; and the sooner you realise it, mylove, the happier you'll be. "

"I'll never realise it!" Marie fired. 

"Then you'll never settle down contentedly as you ought to. "

"Why ought I, mother?"

"Because there's nothing else to be done, " replied Mrs. Ambersensibly. 

"You're right there, " Marie moaned, with her forehead against thechair back, "there's nothing else to be done. "

"What does Osborn say now about a second baby?"

"He doesn't know. "

Mrs. Amber paused and thought before she said: "You ought to tell himat once, my dear. It's possible--he might be pleased. "

"He'll be anything but pleased. I dread telling him. "

"Oh, my duck!" said Mrs. Amber helplessly. 

Marie enumerated: "He'll hate the expense, and the worry, and myillness, and the discomforts he'll have while I'm ill. He'll hateeverything. "

"Men do, of course, poor things, " Mrs. Amber commented with sympathy. 

"Poor things!" Marie flared. "I'd like to--"

"No, you wouldn't like to do anything unkind, love. And when you'vegot your dear little new baby you'll love it, and be just as pleasedwith it as you are with George. You will, my dear; there's nogainsaying it, because we women are made that way. "

"I know, " said Marie very sorrowfully. 

Mrs. Amber regarded her knitting thoughtfully, then she dropped it toregard her daughter thoughtfully. She rose and shut the windowsagainst the now chill night air of October, and drawing the curtains, made the room look cosy. She looked at the fire laid ready in thegrate, but unlighted, and puckered her eyebrows doubtfully. 

"The dining-room fire isn't lighted either, is it, duck?"

"No mother. When Osborn goes out in the evenings, I don't light onejust for myself after these warm days. "

"You should, my love. Really you should make yourself morecomfortable. "

"Now, mother, I'm sure you never lighted fires for yourself whenfather was out, unless it was to keep all the pipes in the place fromfreezing solid. I'm sure you screwed and skimped and saved and worriedalong, as all we other fools of women do. "

Mrs. Amber did not deny this, knowing it to be true; she saidsomething remote, however, about the pleasure of women being duty, andtheir duty sacrifice. 

Marie remained limp in her chair. 

"The point is, mother, that I don't know how to tell Osborn. "

"Well, my love, let me tell him. "

"Oh, mother, " said Marie, "would you?"

"I'll tell him with pleasure. You go to bed, and I'll wait here totell him when he comes in. "

"Supposing he's very late?"

"He won't be later than the last Tube train. I shall get homecomfortably, my love; don't you worry about me. We old women can takecare of ourselves, you know. It's ten o'clock, and you go off to bed. "

"I don't know that I want to, mother. "

"Shoo!" said Mrs. Amber. 

When Marie was in bed, her mother went to the dining-room, establishedherself in an armchair, and put a match to the fire. Her husband beinglong dead, she regarded her own sacrificial days as over, and sheremained tolerably comfortable on what he had left behind him. In thedays of his life, the money had taken him away to those vague hauntsof men; but now it solaced, every penny of it, his widow. As she satby the kindled fire, Mrs. Amber resumed her knitting, and as sheknitted she wondered fondly what the new baby would be like; whetherit would be boy or girl, and just exactly what piece of work she hadbetter get in hand against its arrival. 

So Osborn Kerr, arriving home not very late--it was only just aftereleven o'clock--found his mother-in-law seated alone upon his hearth, needles flying over one of the pale blue jerseys in which littleGeorge was to winter. 

She greeted his stare of astonishment placidly, with her propitiatingsmile and deceitful words:

"I thought you would be cold, Osborn, so I put a match to the fire. "

"Oh, thanks, " said Osborn, "thanks very much. Where's Marie?"

"She's gone to bed. "

"Gone to bed, and left you here by yourself!" Then a thought assailedhim: "I say, " he asked himself, "is she--is she staying behind to giveme a talking-to about anything? What've I done now?"

The question made him antagonistic, and he looked at her keenly. 

"Are you--are you staying the night?" he asked; "because, if so, I'lljust take my things out of the dressing-room into our room, unless youhave done it?"

She lifted her hands. "Oh, my dear boy, I shouldn't dream of puttingyou so about! It is only that I stayed to tell you a little bit ofnews which Marie seemed a trifle reluctant to tell you. "

She put her head on one side and looked at him smilingly. There was nosign upon her face to tell him how anxious her heart was, nor how shehad offered up a prayer as his latchkey clicked in the lock: "Oh, Lord, don't let him be angry; let him be very kind to Marie, forChrist's sake! Amen. "

"If there's anything Marie can't tell me herself--"

In her most propitiatory voice she said, smiling up at the young man, "Can't you guess? I expect you do know, don't you, though Marie thinksyou don't?"

Osborn sat down. 

"I can't possibly guess. Is it a puzzle, at this time of night?"

"It is not a puzzle, " said Mrs. Amber, overflowing with feeling sothat she had to remove and wipe her glasses; "it is just the mostnatural and ordinary and beautiful thing in the world. "

He sat forward quickly, beginning to have some glimmer of hersignificance. 

"You _can't_ mean--"

"You and Marie are going to be blessed with another child. "

"'Blessed'?" said Osborn, after a short pause, "'blessed'?"

"Blessed!" repeated Mrs. Amber anxiously. 

"Some people, " said Osborn, "have rum ideas about blessings. "

"Won't you go in and see Marie and tell her you're pleased?"

"Is she awake?"

"I expect she is; most women would be, " said Mrs. Amber slowly. 

She began with extreme care to roll up her knitting while she awaitedhis further words; she did not look at him, but glanced about theroom, as if seeking some happy idea which she could clothe in theright and most acceptable words. 

"Does she expect me to be pleased?" Osborn asked. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Amber confidentially, "between you and me, shedoesn't; and that's why I offered to tell you, Osborn. She didn't liketo. "

"Poor girl, " said Osborn soberly. 

He stared in front of him, whistling softly. "Life's queer, " heuttered abruptly; "marriage seems so gay at the beginning, andthen--all these infernal complications. There's always things nibblingat one; they never seem to stop. When you've weathered one squallanother gets up on top of the first. . . . "

"There must be a great deal of give-and-take in marriage, " began Mrs. Amber. "I'm as old as both of you put together, and I assure you thateveryone has to make sacrifices, and try to do their duty cheerfully, and welcome the children whom God sends them. "

A little derision curled Osborn's lips. 

"I'm afraid these mere platitudes are no solid help. "

Mrs. Amber murmured protestingly, but, not knowing what a platitudewas, felt she could not follow up the subject. She rose and picked upher coat from a chair back, and wrapped herself up to face the night. 

"Tell Marie you're pleased, " she coaxed. 

"But she knows I'm not, " said Osborn gloomily, "and neither will shebe. One child on our income is enough. It would be different if we hadplenty of money, but we haven't. Why, a family in this flat! This flatwith two bedrooms! Imagine it! When God sends these blessings, as youinfer He does, He should build rooms for 'em. _I_ can't. "

"Oh, don't!" Mrs. Amber implored, "don't! I'm not superstitious, but--" she looked around her and shuddered--"but you ought not to saysuch things. It isn't right. People must make sacrifices. "

"Don't say it all over again. "

She went with her waddling gait, agitatedly, to the door. 

"Good night, " she said. "Be very, very kind to Marie, won't you?"

"I don't need anyone to tell me how to treat my own wife, " he repliedstiffly. 

"Oh, Osborn, don't be offended. "

"I'm not offended, " he said shortly. "Good night, and thanks forstaying in, and lighting the fire and all that. "

He did not remain to watch her slow progress down the stone stairs, but closed the door and went back to the fire. He pulled out his pipe, filled and lighted it. There descended upon him that feeling ofhopeless exasperation which many a young man has felt in many such asituation. When one married did one's liabilities never cease? Didthey never even remain stationary, allowing a man to settle his courseand keep to it, in spite of the boredom involved? Would life be alwaysjust a constant ringing of the changes on paying the rent, paying theinstalment on the furniture, paying the doctor, paying the nurse, paying to go for one anxious week to Littlehampton? Wasn't there somealternative?

All a man appeared able to do was to escape for furtive minutes fromhis chains, to steal furtive shillings from his obligations and spendthem otherwise. 

A lot of men seemed to keep sane under the most unfavourableconditions. 

When Osborn had sucked his pipe to the very last draw, he got up witha heavy sigh, stretched himself, took the coal off the fire to effectthe minute saving, and went to undress. He wondered whether Mariereally was still awake. 

She was, and she was lying wide-eyed and watchful for him. As heopened the door cautiously he heard the rustle of her head moving onthe pillow, and then the movement of her whole body turning towardshim. Her anxiety filled the air with the sense of one poignantquestion: "Do you know?"

In answer to her unspoken inquiry he went at once to her side, andlaid his hand upon her head, where the hair, smoothly parted for thenight, looked sleek and innocent like a little girl's. 

"Your mother told me, " he began; then he bent and kissed her. "I'mawf'ly sorry. I s'pose we've got to make the best of it, old thing. Iwill if you will. It's the very devil, isn't it?"

"Yes, " she sighed. 

CHAPTER XIV

DRIFTING

The second baby came in the middle of a blazing summer, unheralded bythe hopes, by the buds and blossoms of loving thought, which hadopened upon the first child's advent. Marie was remorsefully tenderover it, but Osborn continued to be one long uninterrupted sigh. Thedoctor and nurse seemed to him voracious, greedy creatures seeking forhis life-blood. His second child was born at midnight. He came in oneday at 6. 30 with the fear in his heart men know round and about theseagitating times, and found that fear was justified. The nurse hadalready been sent for, the doctor had looked in once, and thegrandmother, fierce and tearful, was putting the first baby to bed. She put it to bed in Osborn's dressing-room, intimating that he wouldbe responsible for it during the night for the next three weeks, anyway. 

He could not bear it. He went in and kissed the silent, stone-whiteMarie, looked resentfully at George, answered his mother-in-law atrandom, and hurried out again. He was shivering. He remembered toowell now that day which, too easily, he had forgotten. 

He neither ate nor drank; he walked the Heath madly. He told himselfthat not for hundreds of precious pounds would he wait in that flat, wait for the sounds of anguish which would inevitably rise and echoabout those circumscribed walls. The July sun went down; the moon roseup and found him still walking; still fearing and wondering. 

He supposed he was a coward; he could not help it. 

It was after twelve o'clock when at last he went home. He went becausehe suddenly remembered they had left George in his charge, and whilethere was little he could do for Marie, he could at least be faithfulto that trust. He came back shivering as he had gone out; and as hefitted his latchkey with cold fingers into the lock he heard thenewborn infant's wail. 

The nurse looked out into the corridor at the sound of his entrance;she raised her finger, enjoining silence, and smiled. She was the samenurse who had helped to usher baby George into the world, and who hadbeen so serenely certain that they would send for her again. 

She vanished once more into Marie's room. 

Osborn crept along the corridor and took off his boots; he was tiredout, but still he felt no hunger. Had he been hungry he would havesomehow thought it an act of criminal grossness to forage for food. There was none to attend to him, for Mrs. Amber, having waited toreassure herself of her daughter's safety, had been obliged to takethe last Tube train home since there was not room for her at the flat. He was about to undress when the nurse came along the corridor andtapped at his door. 

He knew what she had come for. Once again, with that air of lasécheerfulness she summoned him to his wife's bedside, and once again hestood there looking down upon Marie as she lay there, quiet and worn. Her quietness was the most striking thing about her. She looked at himsteadily and remotely, as if he were a stranger, but with lessinterest; there was even a little hostility about her regard. Itseemed a long while ago since he had fallen beside her bed and weptwith her over the catastrophic forces of Nature; they were both agesolder; as if a fog had drifted between them, their hearts wereobscured from each other. Generations and generations of battle, soold as to be timeless, marked the ground between them. 

He spoke hesitatingly, saying:

"How do you feel, dear?"

"I'm--glad it's over. "

"So'm I. "

"You managed to escape?"

He looked at her hastily, a little red creeping over his pallid face. She spoke almost as to a deserter. "I couldn't have done any good, " hesaid. 

She smiled and closed her eyes, as though against him. It was not anatural smile, it drew her lips tight. 

"What could I do?" he asked her pleadingly. 

She opened her eyes again and looked at him in that remote and quietregard. 

"Men are queer. If you had been suffering, I would never have runaway. "

He wanted to expostulate, to explain how different such a case wouldbe; how, as a matter of course, a wife's place was beside her husbandin good and ill, most particularly ill--but he did not find the heartto do it. She looked so fatigued and was so deadly quiet. He felt at aloss, and looked around vaguely till his eye lighted on the cot. There, beneath the muslin and ribbon which had at last been crisplylaundered, lay a burden, now minute, but about to cling and grow likean Old Man of the Sea. 

"How's the baby?" he asked, tiptoeing to it. 

"It's a girl, " said Marie; "I expect you've been told. "

He had not been told, having made no inquiry. Here again thestory-books which had informed him of romantic life in his very youngdays had been at fault; they made such an idealised picture of allthat had just taken place, and they told about the joy in the heart ofa man and the ecstasy in the heart of a woman. Osborn looked down upona tiny, red and crumpled face. 

"I expect she'll grow up as pretty as her mother, " he said with aneffort, "but now she's--she's curious, isn't she?"

With what relief he hailed the return of the nurse? It was so latethat she was stern and cross and cold with him as she shut him out. 

Little George awoke at the sounds, cautious though they were, of hisfather's undressing, and, crying for mummie, could not be consoleduntil lifted out, and wildly and clumsily petted and lied to, andcajoled. Even then he did not trust this daddy who was such a strangerin the house; who was only jolly by fits and starts when they all wokeup in the pink room in the mornings; who hid behind a paper atbreakfast, and who, going away in a hurry directly afterwards, onlyreturned after George was asleep, or simulating sleep under threat ofa slapping. The baby missed his mother's loving arms and criedmiserably, hunched uncomfortably in Osborn's. But at last he mustsleep through sheer drowsiness, and they both went to bed. In themorning Osborn dressed him before he went away, and was called upon tomake himself generally useful, and made to memorise a string oferrands. 

The nurse would have no nonsense. She demanded and he complied. 

He cursed her within himself. What a pack!

During those days once more Desmond was good to him, sheltering him athis club, inviting him to play golf, or to run out into the countrywith him in his two-seater. Once they took George because the nursewas so firmly decided that they should do so, and they stayed out pasthis bedtime, and tired him out, and made him furious. 

"It's a gay life!" said Osborn to Rokeby, "a gay life, what?"

Marie sent the nurse away at the end of three weeks, and tackled herincreased household alone. She was unable to nurse the baby, and thedoctor ordered it to be fed upon the patent food which George used tohave, so she was obliged to ask Osborn to increase the housekeepingallowance. 

They discussed long and seriously the ways and means to the increaseand the amount of it. "Half a crown, " was her reiteration; "on half acrown I'd do it somehow. "

And he asked: "Yes! But where's the half-crown to come from?"

"You must find it, " she said at last. 

With compressed lips and lowering brow the young man thought it out. "I give you all I can--"

"And I take as little as I can. "

"I'm sick of these discussions about money. "

"So'm I. "

"It seems as if we were sick of the whole thing, doesn't it?"

Being a woman, she dared not confirm verbally those reckless words;their very recklessness caused her to fear. If they _were_ sickof the whole thing--well, what about it? What were they to do? Theywere in it, weren't they, up to their necks? Of two people whomutually recognised the plight, only one must foam and rage andstutter out unpalatable truths about it; it was for the other to pouron the oil, to deceive and pretend and propitiate and cajole, to tryto keep things running and the creaking machinery at work. 

Because--what else remained to do?

But when Osborn rapped out: "It seems as if we were sick of the wholething, doesn't it?" though she would not confirm this in words, hersilence confirmed it, her silence and her look. They made him hesitateand catch his breath. 

"Well?" he asked. 

"I'm not going to say such things. "

"But you know they're true, don't you?" he asked in despair. 

"You ought to think, as I do, that the babies are worth it all. "

"When two people begin telling each other what they _ought_ todo, they're reaching the limit. "

"You've often told me what I ought to do. "

"I don't know what's coming to women. "

"A revolution!"

"Rubbish!" said Osborn. "Women have no power to revolt, and no reasoneither. "

"It's true we've no power; that's what keeps most of us quiet. "

"I wish it would keep you quiet. "

"You see, I can't help it, can I? Keeping quiet doesn't ask you forthis other half-crown, and I've got to ask you. I can't help it. "

"I daresay not, " he admitted reluctantly. "But--"

"Can I have it?" she asked doggedly. 

"Oh, take it!" he flared, flung half-a-crown on the table, rose, andwent out. She sat for a while looking at the half-crown, then she tookit in her hand, and wanted to pitch it into the street for the firstbeggar to profit by, but, remembering that she was a beggar too, shekept it. 

Osborn entered into further discussion of the matter in a reasonablevein. 

"Half-a-crown a week's six pound ten a year. Sure you can't managewithout?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, lots of women have to--to--manage. "

"There's a limit even to management. "

"I suppose there is. Very well. "

"You mean I'm to have it?"

"All right. "

"Thank you very much, dear, " said Marie very slowly after a while. 

"You don't seem in a particular hurry to say it. "

"Why should I say it?"

"What! when I've just arranged to give you six pound ten--"

"To feed your daughter. "

"Oh, well--"

"Anyway, I _have_ said it. I've said 'Thank you very much, 'haven't I? Do you want me to show more gratitude?"

"It beats me to think what's come over women. "

They sat on either side of their hearth looking at one another inunconcealed bewilderment. 

"If you cared to let me make out a budget, Osborn, " she said suddenly, "I think we could arrange it all better. So much for everything, youknow. "

"Oh, yes, I know! I know all about it, thanks! If you want to dole outmy pocket-money, my dear, I'm off. . . . I'm completely off it! No, thankyou. I'll keep my hands on my own income. "

"I only meant--"

"Women never seem satisfied, " said Osborn wrathfully. 

As he looked at her sitting there, thin and fair and reserved as shenever used to be, with the sheen of her glossy hair almost vanished, and all of her pretty insouciance gone, he saw no more the gay girl, the wifely comrade, whom he had married. In her place sat theimmemorial hag, the married man's bane, the blood-sucker, the enemy, the asker. 

She had taken from him a sum equivalent to twice his weeklytobacco-money. 

The sacrifice of _all_ his tobacco would not provide for that redand crumpled baby lying in its fine basket. He took that as acomparison, with no intention of sacrificing his tobacco; but it justgave one the figures involved. 

As if feeling through her reserve the gist of his thoughts, shesmiled. 

"Poor old Osborn!" she said. 

"You can stretch an income, and stretch it, " said Osborn, "but itisn't eternally elastic, you know. "

"_Don't_ I know it!"

"Well, all I ask you to do, " said Osborn, "is to remember it. "

Then life went round as before, except that a great anxiety as tomeeting the weekly bills fell upon Marie. Sometimes they were ashilling up and sometimes a shilling down. The day when the greasybooks fell through the letter-box into the hall was a day to add agrey hair to the brightest head. 

With two babies to dress, she rose earlier; she swept and dusted andcooked quicker; she sent Osborn off to his work as punctually asbefore; she wheeled two infants instead of one out in the greyperambulator to the open-air market. And there her bargaining becamesharp, thin and shrewish. She fought the merchants smartly, andsometimes she won and sometimes they. During the day Grannie Amberusually came in and lent a hand about the babies' bedtime. At 6. 30Osborn came home, a little peevish until after dinner. After dinner hewent out again if the new baby cried or if anything went wrong. Once aquarter the demand for the rent came upon him like a fresh blow; oncea month he paid the furniture instalment; once a week he gave up, likelife-blood, thirty-two and sixpence to her whose palm was alwaysready. 

"It's a gay life!" he often said with a twisted smile, "A gay life, what?"

CHAPTER XV

SURRENDER

Grannie Amber was afraid--she did not know exactly why--that, the yearfollowing the second baby's arrival, Osborn would forget Marie'sbirthday, and she was anxious that it should not be forgotten. Thoughshe herself had, early in her married life, grown tired and quiet, hadearly learned to bargain shrewishly with the merchants of the cheaperfoods and, after the first three years, had always had her birthdaysforgotten; though she had been perfectly willing and ready to urge herdaughter into the life domestic, upon a small income, yet regrets tookher and sighs, all of perfect resignation, when she saw the darknessunder Marie's eyes, when she stood by in the market and heard her hardchaffering, when she noted the worried crinkles come to stay in herbrow. So that, resolving that Osborn should not forget, natural as itwould have been for him, in her judgment, to do so, she trailed hiswife's birthday across his path a fortnight before the actual day, wishing in her thoughtfulness to give him the chance to save from twoweeks' salary for some gift. 

She sewed in his presence and, as she sewed, entered into a fullexplanation of her work: "This little skirt, Osborn, is for Marie'sbirthday. I hope I'll get it done in time; there's only a fortnight, as you know. "

He did not know; the fact had slipped his memory in the ceaselessdream of other liabilities due; but as he looked at Grannie Amber, andthe purple silk petticoat which she was finely sewing, he assumed aperfect memory of the occasion. 

He answered: "I was just going to ask Marie what she'd like for it. "

"There are a lot of things she'd like, " Mrs. Amber began. 

That same evening, when Grannie Amber had rolled up the purplepetticoat into her workbag and departed, he asked Marie, as they sattogether over the fire:

"What would you like for your birthday, my dear?"

A great pleasure shone in her face as she gazed at him. 

"Osborn, " she stammered, "can you afford to give me a present at all?"

"I should hope so, " he replied. 

An eagerness, which he had not seen there for a long while, invadedher face; it was an eagerness of pleasure at his remembrance, at hiswish to be kind and to give her happiness. About the gift she was notso precious; she hoped it would be small, and she said, almostreverentially:

"I'd rather you chose, dear. "

"I'd been thinking, " said Osborn, who had thought of it during dinner, "that you might like to be taken out. How would that do for a present?Of course I'd like to do both--to take you out _and_ give you aswagger gift--but we know it can't be done, don't we?"

"Of course. Of course, my dear. "

"You'd like to go out to dinner? And perhaps we could go somewhereafter, too. "

"The dinner will be enough, Osborn. Oh! it will be lovely!"

"Righto!" he said. "I--I do wish I could take you out oftener, but youknow--"

"Of course I know, Osborn. "

She thought with excitement of the charming few hours which they wouldsnatch from routine, together, a fortnight hence. She spoke of it toMrs. Amber, carelessly, with a high-beating heart and secret, delicious thrills: "We're dining out on my birthday, mother, if youwon't mind spending the evening here in case the children wake. "

"Oh, duck!" cried Mrs. Amber, "oh, my love! I'll be delighted. Mindyou enjoy yourselves very much and don't hurry home. Grandmothers aremade to be useful. "

Nearly every spare minute of every day during those intervening weeksMarie spent in renovating a frock. She had vast ideas, but no moneyexcept a few shillings hoarded only a woman knows how, in spite of thepressing claims of the greasy books. Her wedding frock, four yearsold, emerged from the tissue paper where it had lain these manymonths, yellowed and soiled, in dire need of the cleaner'sministrations or the dyer's art. Marie could not afford the cleaner, and did not dare the wash-tub and soap, but she bought one of thosefourpenny-ha'penny dyes with which impecunious women achieve amazingresults, wherewith she dyed the frock, and the bath, and her own handsa shade of blue satisfactory at least by artificial light. Under itshe would wear the purple petticoat, whose flounces would cause theskirt to sway and swing in the present mode, and she would evolveherself a hat. She folded a newspaper round, shaped it to her head, covered it with black velvet, borrowed a great old cameo clasp of hermother's, and had a turban, a saucy thing whose rake brought back fora while the lamp to her eyes and the rose to her cheek. Thehousemaid's gloves and the rubber gloves had never been renewed, andthe supply of Julia's wornout suèdes could not cope with thedestruction of them at No. 30, so that Marie's fine hands were fine nolonger. They were reddened and roughened and thickened like the handsof other household women, but each afternoon in the slow fortnight shesat down to careful manicuring. When the result of these pains wasfulfilled; when she stood before the glass in her pink bedroom gaspingat her reflection, she could have sung and danced and wept in thisglad renewal of her youth. 

She had rendezvous with Osborn at the chosen restaurant at seven. Never, it seemed to her, had she felt lighter-footed andlighter-hearted. It was as if the old days were back, the old dayswhen an unlessoned girl met an unlessoned man to dream of heaventogether, in some restaurant room full of the lessons and sophistriesof love. Westwards she travelled by Tube, emerged at Leicester Square, and walked on flying feet past the Haymarket, across the great streamof traffic at the top, into Shaftesbury Avenue, and into the foyer ofa famous restaurant. She sat down on a velvet couch, snuggled her fursaround her, and felt a lady of luxury. Osborn kept her waiting someten minutes, but soon the damper which that put upon her spiritsevaporated, leaving her all pure bliss. It was entrancing to sit hereonce more--where she had often kept Osborn sitting in the old days ofher imperiousness and his humility--and to watch the well-dressedpeople come in and out, pass to and fro, and enact scenes whichsuggested the gaudiest stories to her receptive mind. Light andwarmth, rich colour and abundant life flowed there like tides, andmany servants stood about the foyer to obey her behests. 

The restaurant to Marie was revel and entertainment, and when theslight blankness with which his lateness had oppressed her had beenoverswayed by her enjoyment, she could have wished to sit here forhours, doing nothing, saying nothing, eating nothing, but justbreathing in this atmosphere of wealth and ease. 

But Osborn came, hurrying, between seven and seven-fifteen, apology onhis lips. A man had come in late to buy a car and they had talked . . . Never was there such a long-winded customer. He took Marie's armlightly in his hand, hurried her in, and chose a table, the nearestvacant one. He dropped into his seat and passed his hand over his browand eyes to brush away the daze of fatigue. He was tired and very, very hungry, too hungry to watch with his old appreciation the daintymovements of his wife, as she shrugged her furs from her shoulders, and drew off her white gloves, and smiled at him radiantly, with thesense of those dear, old, lost, spoiled-girl days returningmomentarily to her. 

Osborn's brows were knitted over the wine-list and his hand movedrestlessly in his pocket. Very carefully he considered and weighed theprices and at last gave his order quickly. 

"Half a bottle of '93. " Leaning slightly towards his wife, he added:"I'm afraid it can't be a bottle of the one and only these days, kiddie. "

"Not now that we're family people!" she cried bravely. 

While he leaned back quietly, awaiting the arrival of the firstcourse, and, could she have known it, craving the food with the keencraving of the man who has lunched too lightly, she looked at herhands, from which the white gloves were now removed. A pang, notaltogether new, but of renewed sharpness, shot through her, as shelooked down at the reddened, hardened fingers with the slightvegetable stains upon them, clasped together on the table edge. Wherewere the nails trained and kept to an exquisite filbert shape? Theoval of the cuticles? The slender softness and coolness of thefinger-tips? The backs of the hands were roughened and the palmsseamed; there was a tiny crack at a finger-joint; it seemed to herthat the spoiling of her beautiful hands had made so insidious a pacethrough these years that she had, day by day, been almost unaware ofthe havoc in progress. But looking down upon them in this place ofease and grace, she saw, surprised and sorrowful, the whole of the sadmischief. Her hands were as the hands of a scullery-maid taken out, most unsuitably, to dinner. While Osborn still awaited the firstcourse, she drew her hands down and hid them on her lap. There wastime enough to display their effect when they must emerge for the useof the table implements. 

Surrounding her were women whose white hands, jewelled and unjewelled, played about their business, lovely as pale and delicate flowers. Shecast her glances right and left, seeing them and envying. And shelooked at their clothes, their smart and slender shoes, the richnessof their cloaks hanging over chair backs, and she saw her own frock asit was, dyed and mended and _démodé_. 

She knew. "It looked nice when I tried it on at home because therewere no comparisons. Here, where there's competition, I--I'm hopeless. I'd better have worn a suit. "

Her turban, that thing which had paraded so saucily in the pink roomwhile the babies slept regardless, was an outsider--a _gamin_among hats. 

She was not the first woman who has decked herself at home to her owngratification, to emerge into a wealthier world to her own despair. 

While these things were borne in, with the flashlight speed of woman'simpressions, upon her brain, the first course arrived and they ate. After it, Osborn roused himself to talk. He asked her several times ifshe were enjoying herself, and she told him with smiling lips that shewas. 

"It's not so often that we go out, is it?" he remarked. "We must makethe best of the times we get. "

"This is _lovely_. "

"Poor old girl!" said Osborn, "you don't get out on the loose verymuch, do you? But I don't suppose you want to, though; women aredifferent from men. A woman's interest centres in her home, and you'vequite enough to do to keep your mind occupied, haven't you?"

"And my hands. Look at them!"

She spread them before him. 

"Poor old girl!" said Osborn, looking. 

A recollection stirred in him, too, of what those hands had been inthe days of their romance. "You used to have the prettiest hands Iever saw, " he said. 

She snatched them petulantly under the table again. 

"Don't!"

"Don't what?"

"Don't--say that! I can't bear to think how ugly I'm getting. "

Her husband looked at her with a faint, bewildered smile. "Come!" headjured her, "you mustn't get morbid. You're not ugly, you silly girl. You were one of the prettiest girls I ever saw. "

"But _now_?"

"Now?" He looked at her quickly. "You're as pretty as ever you were, of course. "

"I'm not, " she denied, reading the lie in his eyes. 

"Women are bound to change, no doubt, " he conceded. "I daresay havingthe babies aged you a bit. But you needn't get anxious about yourlooks _yet_. "

"I'm not thirty, but I look it. "

"No, no, you don't, " he said constrainedly. 

She smiled, and contented herself with watching him eat the nextcourse while she toyed with it. As a woman, food meant little to her;she was concerned more with the prettiness of its serving; but Osbornwas avidly hungry and his enjoyment was palpable. 

She thought: "Poor boy! How he likes the good things of life! And howfew of them he gets! He oughtn't to have married. "

She looked around her again, and saw, a little way across the floor, agay woman in black. Her hair and eyes were black, her complexion waswhite, her lips were red. She had with her two men who worshipped. Ofher Marie said to herself:

"She's older than I, but she's keeping her looks; her hands are not sonice as mine used to be, but now they're far nicer. She's keepingherself young and gay; she sees to it that she's pampered. But if shehad married a poor man, and had two babies, and had been obliged to doall the chores, I wonder. . . . "

"What interests you, my dear?" Osborn asked. 

She told him in a fitful, inarticulate way. "I was looking at thatwoman over there, the one in black, with the diamond comb in her hair. And--and I was wondering--in a way--I can hardly explain--what isreally the best thing to do with one's life. She's older than I--agood deal older--but see how smooth her face is. She looks as if shecould never do anything other than laugh. And her hands--see, she usesthem to show them off--aren't they lovely? But I was wondering, if shewas in my shoes, how would she look? What would she do if babies wokeher up half a dozen times every night, so that when the morning cameshe was very tired?

"Tired, and yet she must get up and cook and sweep, and take thechildren out, and everything. Would her face be smooth and would shelaugh then? I was wondering, too, whether she'd take the same troubleover her hair at six o'clock of a cold morning. And, if she had mylife, would men admire her so much? Would they look at her as they arelooking now?"

Osborn stared at his wife, half-amazed, half-frowning. 

"One would think, " he said, "to hear you talk, that you weren't happy;that you hadn't all--all--all a woman in your position of life canhave. "

She flushed quickly. "Don't think that! I was just wondering abouther, that's all, as I used to wonder about the people we saw when youtook me out to dinner in our engaged days. Do you remember? You usedto laugh at me and call me the Eternal Question, and all kinds ofsilly things. "

"I don't remember that. "

"No? Well, it was a very long while ago. "

"It sounded as if you were envying her. "

"I _was_ envying her. "

"Haven't you all you want?" he said again in resentful surprise. 

"I want to be awf'ly young again, and to have a smooth face andmanicured hands, and lots of admiration. "

"I'll tell you what it is, " said Osborn, regaining his good temperwith an effort, "this wine has gone to your head. "

After he had presented this very satisfactory solution, both laughed;but while he laughed with relief at dismissing the question, shelaughed only acquiescently and unconvinced, the laugh which should becalled the Laugh of the Wise Wives. It appeased him and it relievedher, as a groan relieves a person in pain. She sipped her unaccustomedwine and looked around her with her wide eyes, which were far, farmore widely opened now than in the days of her blind youth. 

When a rather tired and preoccupied man takes his wife of four years'standing out to dinner he knows that he need not exert himself totalk, to shine, to please, as with a woman who holds the piquancy of astranger; so while Osborn spoke spasmodically, or drifted intosilence, Marie could look around her and think thoughts which chilledthe ardour of her soul. It seemed to her, that evening of hertwenty-ninth birthday, that a door was opened to her, revealingnakedly the fears and the trepidations and the minute cares ofmarriage which have creased many a woman's brow before her time. Therestaurant was to her the tide of life, upon which the black-hairedwoman and her sisters sailed victoriously, but upon which she, andwives like her, trained for the race only in the backwaters of theirhomes, embarked timidly to their disgrace and peril. What wife of ahusband with two hundred a year could row against the black-hairedwoman and keep pride of place?

As Marie wondered things which all her sisterhood have long achedover, she saw Osborn looking at the black-haired woman too, and in hiseyes there was a light of admiration, a keenness, a speculation whichdrew the tired lines from his face and left it eager once more. It wasthe male look which once he had looked only for her. With a heartbeating sharply she recognised and wanted it again, but she feltstrangely impotent. She in her dyed gown, her _gamin_ of a hat, with her spoiled hands and thin cheeks--and that tall, rounded beautywith all her life and vivacity, undrained, throbbing in her from toesto finger-tips! What a comparison!

Vain and profitless was the unequal competition. She felt one momentas if, should it come to a struggle, she would relinquish it in sheerdespair; the next, as if she would fight, teeth and nails, body andbrains, for her inalienable rights over this man. All the while theseemotions surged up in her, and ebbed and flowed in again, herintelligence told her the wild absurdity of such supposition. Theraven woman was a stranger; and socially, to all appearance, she mustalways remain so. Yet Marie could not still the passionate unrest ofher heart without taking her husband's eyes from the table where twoobsequious men adored a goddess. 

She drummed her hard finger-tips sharply on the table. 

"Osborn, do you know her?"

"Know her? No. " He added carelessly: "I wish I did. "

Marie said in a voice which she tried hard to keep detached: "Why? Oh, yes. . . . I--I suppose she's the type men would admire very much. "

"Well, _you_ were admiring her a few minutes ago. "

"In--in a way I was. I mean, she's so smooth, so--so well-kept, andher frock is lovely, with those diamond shoulder-straps and all thatblack tulle. I thought--you stared as if you knew her. "

"I hope I shouldn't stare at any woman because I knew her. As a matterof fact, I believe I know who she is; she's an actress; bound tosucceed if she takes the right line, I should think. Just now she'sgot six lines to speak in that new piece of Mutro's. You know--what'sit called?"

"What's her name?"

"Roselle Dates, I think. "

Osborn looked at his wife solicitously. 

"I'm afraid you're a bit tired, dear; you're getting pale. You had ajolly colour when I met you. "

She touched her cheeks mechanically with her fingertips. 

"Had I? That was because I was so excited at the prospect of ourlovely evening. "

"Dear old girl! So it's been a lovely evening?"

"Perfect. I wish it was beginning all over again, " she answeredhollowly, wishing that she meant what she said. 

What was the matter with her? Why did she feel so grey, so plain, sosparkless?

"I ought to rouge a little, " she said. "Everyone else does. "

He protested quickly and strongly. 

"But, " she said, "if I'm tired? If I'm a fright? What then?"

"I shouldn't like my wife to make up. "

"But, Osborn, I want you to think I'm pretty, well turned out, smart, like all the other women here. "

She waved a hand vaguely around, but her look was on the raven woman, on whose face the white cosmetic, exquisitely applied, was like palerose petals. 

"I do think you're pretty. As for your turn-out--" he glanced over itquickly--"it's all right, isn't it? It's what we can afford, anyway. We can't help it, can we?"

She shook her head. "I've had no new clothes since we were married, "she murmured suddenly in a voice of yearning. 

"Well, " said Osborn after a pause, "you had such lots; such a bigtrousseau, hadn't you? It's supposed to last some while. "

"It's lasted!" Her laugh rang out with a curious merriment; her eyeswere downcast so that he could not see the tears in them, butsomething about his wife touched him profoundly. 

He exclaimed, with rejuvenated sentiment: "You know I'd always giveyou everything I could! You know it isn't because I _won't_ thatI don't give you the most wonderful clothes in town, so that you couldbeat every other woman hollow. "

His sentiment flushed her cheeks and cleared the mist from her eyes. She asked, half shyly and coquettishly:

"Do you think I should?"

"Of course you would, little girl. You're charming; anything moreunlike the mother of two great kids I never saw. "

"Ah, " she said slowly, "but you forget to tell me. "

"What?"

"All those--dear little--things. "

"Women are rum, " he declared. "I believe they're always wanting theirhusbands to propose to them. "

"It would be nice, " she said seriously. 

Osborn laughed a good deal. "A woman's never tired of love-making. "

"A married woman doesn't often get the chance. "

"A married man doesn't often get the time. "

She looked yet again at the actress across the room, and strangeechoes of questions stirred in her. Such a woman, she thought, wouldalways make a man find time. How did they do it? What was the realsecret of feminine victory, triumphant and deathless? Was it not tokeep burning always, night and day, winter and summer, autumn andspring, throughout the seasons, the clear-flamed lamp of romance?

Behind the wife there stood shades, sturdy, greedy, disagreeableshades, and the two-hundred-pound husband always saw them; they werethe butcher, the grocer, the milkman, the doctor, the landlord and thetax-collector. 

How could she trim her lamp brightly to burn?

In the restaurant many diners had gone; many, lingering, thought ofgoing; waiters hovered near ready to hand bills, and empty liqueurglasses and coffee cups, and ash trays, and the dead ends ofcigarettes lay under the rose lights on all the tables. Osborn haddrunk a benedictine and smoked a cigar appreciatively; Marie had begunto think, reluctantly, yet clingingly, maternally, of her babies inthe pink room at home. She lifted her furs from the chair back, and awaiter hurried to adjust the stole over her shoulders. 

"Sorry, " said Osborn, going through the slight motion of attempting torise from his chair; "I should have done that. "

"Never mind, dear, " she answered. 

Then he paid the bill, got into his own coat, and they walked out. Asthey went, he asked: "Well, old girl, have you really enjoyed it?"

"It was lovely. Thank you so much!"

"Sure it was the sort of birthday present you wanted?"

"Absolutely the one and only thing, Osborn. "

"Happy young woman!" He took her arm and squeezed it. 

"Cab, sir?" the commissionaire asked. 

"We're walking, thanks. "

They walked to the nearest Tube station, took train to Hampstead, andarrived home at eleven, to release the sleepy grandmother on duty. 

"Had a lovely time, duck?" asked Mrs. Amber, trotting out into thehall. 

"Tophole, Grannie, " said Osborn. "Marie's thoroughly enjoyed herself. "

"Simply lovely, mother, " said Marie. "We went to the Royal Red, andOsborn gave me a scrumptious dinner. Babies been good?"

"Not a sound--the little angels. "

Marie kissed her mother good night, waved her out, and went quietlyalong the corridor to the bedroom; she switched up the light, bentover the cots of the sleeping children, and assured herself of theirwell-being. They slumbered on, placid and dreamless. Then she went toher dressing-table, and planting her palms flat upon it, leanedforward upon them, and gazed at herself mercilessly. She tore off herhat, rumpled her hair, rubbed her cheeks and gazed again. There weresome little fine lines at the corners of her eyes, and as she lookedand looked under the strong light, there stood out, silvery around hertemples, amid the fairness, the first half-dozen grey hairs. The sightof them petrified her; she had not known she had so many. 

"_Oh!_" she breathed. 

Her fingers travelled down her neck. It had lost its roundness and, asshe turned it this way and that, examining, two muscles stood out; hercollar-bones showed faintly. The crude abundance of colour of the dyeddress enhanced her lack of colour. 

"Well . . . " she began to judge slowly. Then "I suppose there's no helpfor it. "

Two tears dropped down her face. She sobbed and checked herself. Sheheard her husband moving about quickly in his dressing-room, and shehurried off her own garments, let down her hair, and brushed andplaited it hastily. He came in and kissed her. 

"She's had a good time!" he exclaimed, well pleased. 

CHAPTER XVI

ISOLATION

Julia was waiting for a guest in that weird institution which shecalled her club. The weird institution, however, had lost some of itsweirdness and gained in comfort and _cachet_. It now boasted manymembers of distinction, new decorations and enlarged subscriptions. Miss Julia Winter sat in the mauve drawing-room under soft light, inthe delicate glow of which her face took on suave and gentle lines, and her eyes held hints of womanly mystery. Before her, one of themany tables of the club drawing-room stood furnished withblue-and-white tea equipage. Behind her back, as she sat settled inthe corner of a chesterfield, a fat silk pillow was crushed. For apicture of modern bachelor-womanhood which knew how to do itselfthoroughly well, Julia could not, in these moments, have beenexcelled. 

The door opened and a page, after assuring himself of Miss Winter'spresence, announced: "Mrs. Kerr!"

A quiet and slender woman, in a shabby suit dated some six years ago, came to meet Julia listlessly. Her listlessness, however, was onlybodily, for into her eyes some eager spirit had leapt and her handswent out involuntarily. They were engulfed in Julia's well-shapedlarge ones, and Marie was drawn down upon the mauve couch and the fatpillow made to transfer its amenities. 

Each woman looked at the other with a long, careful look. 

"How comfortable this is!" Marie observed. 

"Is it, dear?" said Julia. "Lean back and rest. You look tired. Beenshopping?"

"Just a few things for the children; I take the opportunity of beingin town, you know. "

"Did you come up this morning?"

"Yes, before lunch. Mother's staying in the flat with the children. "

"How are they all--your big family of three?"

"Awf'ly well, thank you. Baby's got a tooth. "

"How splendid! I just must come and see her again. And Georgie?"

"George has grown a lot since you saw him last. I've been huntingabout for a little jersey suit for him; they're all so expensive; I'llhave to knit one myself. "

"My dear girl! When do you get time to knit jersey suits?"

"In the evenings, when dinner is over. There's always an hour or sobefore bedtime, you know. "

After a short silence, Julia asked: "I suppose you _have_lunched, dear? Otherwise I'll order sandwiches. "

"I've lunched, thank you. "

"Met your husband, I suppose?"

"N--no. I had something, quickly, at Swan and Edgar's. I was in ahurry. "

Julia signalled a waitress serving tea at the other end of the vastroom. "The usual tea, " she ordered, "_and_ sandwiches. "

Marie leaned back against her cushion restfully. She had the slowglance of a woman much preoccupied, whose mind comes very heavily backto matters not of her immediate concern. She went on for a littlewhile talking of the topics which filled her brain to the exclusion ofall else. 

"We're thinking of sending George to a day school soon--at least, Iam. I've not spoken of it to Osborn yet; there hasn't been a chance. "

"How do you mean--no chance? I thought married people lived together. "

"Oh, well . . . You don't understand. One has to make an opportunity;get a man into the right mood. He won't like the expense, of course, though it's only a guinea and a half a term, if you send them tillmid-day only. That would do at first, don't you think? I don't believein pushing children. Still, a guinea and a half a term is four and ahalf guineas a year. Well, I can't help it, can I? He'll _have_to go to school soon, there's no doubt of that. He's getting too muchfor me, and it would be a great help, having him out of the way in themornings, while I'm doing my work. "

"I think it would be a very good plan, darling, " Julia replied. 

"I know you'd agree with me about it. I shall tell Osborn you thinkit's a good plan, and I shall get mother to tell him too. We shallpersuade him. "

"How is your husband?" Julia asked punctiliously. 

"Very well, thank you. "

"Still delighted with domestic life?"

"Oh, that doesn't last, of course, " said Marie, looking away andsighing. "A man always gets to think of his home as just the placewhere bills are sent. Osborn's out a good deal in the evenings, likeother men, of course. There's one thing--it leaves me very free. There's always something to be done, you see, and I can get through agreat deal in the evenings if he's out. "

"And if he's in?"

"Oh well, a man likes one to sit down and talk to him, naturally. "

"How awf'ly obliging wives are!"

"My dear, if you were married, you'd know that the only way is tohumour them. "

The waitress came in with the tea tray and set the table daintily. ToJulia it was a matter of course, but Marie watched the deft girl whohandled things so swiftly and quietly; she took in the neatness of herblack frock, and the starched whiteness of her laundering; and whenthe maid had left them, she turned with an envious, smiling sigh toJulia, and said:

"The servants here are so nice. I always used to think, when I had amaid, she'd look like that. We were going to have one, you know, whenOsborn got his first rise after we were married, but George came; andnow--three of them! It'll always be impossible, of course. "

"I daresay you'd rather have the children than the maid. "

"Of course I would--the priceless things!" Marie cried, her small paleface warming with maternity. 

Julia dispensed tea; and for awhile refused to allow her guest to talkmore until she was refreshed. And when she was refreshed and restedamong the amenities of the mauve room, that absorption in the affairsaround which her whole life moved and had its being grew less keen;her preoccupations lifted; she left the problem which, even here, hadbegun to worry her, as to whether a pound, or three-quarters of apound only, of wool would make George a jersey suit, and she turnedher eyes with a kind of wondering recollection upon the world outside. She began by looking around the room at the many well-dressed, softlychattering women; at the cut of their gowns and the last thing inhats; then her look wandered to Julia and took in her freshness, thebeauty of her tailoring, and the expensiveness of her appearancegenerally. 

"I feel so shabby among you all, " she murmured, with a smile whichappeared to Julia as a ghost. 

"You look very pretty, " said Julia, "as you always do, dear. "

"When one is first married, " Marie said quietly, "one always imaginesone will never get old and tired and spoiled, as thousands of otherwomen do; but one does it all the same. One's day is just so full, andwith babies one's night is often so full, too, that there simply isn'ttime to fuss over one's own appearance. With three children and nohelp, you've got to let something go, and in my case--"

She broke off, to continue: "It's been me. "

Julia laid one of her hands over Marie's lying in her lap. Marie'shands produced the effect of toilers glad to rest. They hardly stirredunder Julia's, even to give an answering squeeze. And Julia felt, witha burning and angry heart, how rough and tired they were. 

"Julia, " said Marie, "I've often wanted to ask someone who would behonest with me--and you're the honestest person I knew--do you thinkI--I've let myself go very badly?"

"My dear kiddie!" Julia cried low, "why, you--you've been brilliant. "

"Look at me, " said Marie, thrusting forward her face. 

Julia looked, to see the lines from nostrils to mouth, the lines atthe corners of the eyes, the enervated pallor and the grey hairs amongthe golden-brown. She was sorry and bitter. 

"You look a dear, " she said irresolutely. 

Marie sank back upon the fat pillow again with a laugh. It was thelaugh of a woman who was beat and owned it. 

"You can't stand up against it, " she said. "I don't care who says youcan. Day in, day out; night in, night out; no, you can't stand upagainst it. I've often thought it out, and something _has_ to go. The woman's the only thing who can be let go; the children must bereared and the man must be fed; but the woman must just serve herpurpose. "

Tears swelled in Julia's eyes. "Don't, " she begged huskily, "don't getbitter. "

Marie returned her look with the simple and wide-eyed one sheremembered so well. "I'm not, " she stated; "I was just thinking, andit comes to that. You must feed a man and look after him and make himcomfortable, or--or you wouldn't keep him at all. "

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. But I sometimes think, " she whispered, "if I let myselfgo, get plain and drab, will I keep him then?"

"It is in his service, " said Julia. 

Marie said wisely: "That doesn't count. And often--I get frightenedwhen he sometimes takes me out, and we dine at a restaurant. I lookround and see the difference between most of the women there and me. In restaurants one always seems to see such wonderful women--women whoseem as if _their_ purpose was just being taken out to dinner andto be attractive. I compare my clothes with theirs and my hands withtheirs; and I think: 'Supposing Osborn is comparing me, too?'"

"He wouldn't. "

"Not consciously, perhaps. But he is admiring the other women all thetime; I see him doing it. Why shouldn't he? All the women he seesabout him in town--the pretty girls in the streets. . . . He used toadmire me so much, when I was very pretty . . . The--the things he usedto say! But now, I sometimes wonder--"

"What else do you wonder, poor kid?"

"When he goes out alone--sometimes to dinner--in the evenings--"

"Whether he's taking someone--"

Marie nodded. "Someone prettier than I; as I used to be; someone who'snot tired with having children; and who hasn't rusted and got dull andstupid from thinking of nothing but grocers' bills, and from stayingat home. "

"You must try not to think--"

"But I do think. Men are like that; men hate being annoyed and want tobe amused. They get to--to--marriage is funny; Osborn seems to get tolook upon me as someone who's always going to _ask_ forsomething. I--I know when he had a nice commission the other day, hedidn't tell me about it, in case there was something for the childrenI'd be asking him for. "

"Oh!"

"It hurts, " said Marie, "always to be considered an asker; but ofcourse men don't think of it like that. "

"They ought to think, then. "

"Men aren't like women. They set their own lines of conduct. "

"What's that in the marriage service, " Julia inquired, "aboutbestowing upon a woman all a man's worldly goods?"

"Ah, well, you think all those things at the time; but they don't workout, really. "

"As I always thought, " said Julia. 

Marie was still away upon her trail. "I don't really let myself go asmuch as you might think. I'm always dressed for breakfast, if I'vebeen up half the night; I don't allow myself to be slovenly. Andhowever I've had to hurry over putting the children to bed, andcooking dinner and things, I always change my blouse and put on mybest slippers before Osborn comes in. I feel--at home I feel as if Ilook quite nice; but when I come out of it"--she indicated hersurroundings--"I realise I'm just a dowd who's fast losing what looksshe had. When I come out, and see others, I--I know I can't compete. It makes you almost afraid to come out. And Osborn--while I'm at home, plodding along, you see, he's out, seeing the others all the time. Hesees them in the restaurants, and they pass him in the street--girlsas I used to be. "

"You must leave all these thoughts alone. "

"Girls, Julia, as--as I could be again, if I had the chance. "

"Would you like a cigarette?" Julia asked abruptly; "if so, we'll goto the smoke-room. "

"I'd love it; it's ages since I smoked. But I haven't time. I must begoing. "

"Already?"

"It'll be the children's bedtime, and mother can't manage them alone. "

"Oh, of course, dear, " Julia said. "How stupid of me!" She folded verytenderly round Marie's neck the stole which had been star turn in thetrousseau six years ago, and very tenderly she pressed her hands. 

"Don't make the jersey suit for George; I want to give it to him forChristmas!"

"Oh, Julia, I couldn't!"

"Yes, you could and will. "

"You're an old darling. "

"That's all right, Mrs. Osborn Kerr. Now I'll take you as far as yourTube or 'bus. Which is it?"

Marie went home the warmer for Julia's companionship and her visit tothe most up-to-date women's club in town; she looked almost girlishagain when she stepped into No. 30 Welham Mansions, to relieve GrannieAmber of the onerous responsibilities which she undertook so gladly. 

"Well, duck, " said Mrs. Amber, coming out with her funny walk, whichwas at once a waddle, because of her weight, and a trip, from theenergy of her disposition, "have you had a lovely day?"

"Such a nice time, thank you, mother. Babes been good?"

"Perfect little angels!" Mrs. Amber lied with innocent sincerity. 

"I'll begin putting them to bed directly I've laid down these parcels. I've got the cream socks and the flannel for baby's new petticoats, but the jersey suits were too dear. Julia's going to give George onefor Christmas. "

"That's very kind of her, love. I always think she has a good heart, though I don't like her opinions. The bath water's hot, my duck, andbaby's in bed, and the others are undressed, all ready, waiting foryou. "

"You _are_ a good grannie!"

Grannie Amber stayed a while longer to watch the two elder children'sbathing; she squeezed her plump form alongside Marie in the tinybathroom, and from time to time emitted laughs and cries of fonddelight. She made herself busy, when the matter was over, in foldingtowels and wiping up the pools of water which the rampant children hadsplashed upon the floor. She followed them with her waddling tripalong the corridor to see them snugly tucked up in their beds in whathad been Osborn's dressing-room, and at last, having murmured, "Godbless you all, ducks!" her good work accomplished, she stole away. 

The flush of exertion stained Marie's pale cheeks now; it was 6. 15, and there was no time for anything but to fly to the kitchen. It wasalways so, but happily there was seldom time to think about it. If youbegan to question why, the potatoes boiled dry in immediate protestagainst your discontent. By the time Marie had set the gas-stove goingfull blast the very tips of her nose and ears were crimson. Withoutpause she ran back into her bedroom to put on her best slippers, theonly evening toilet she had time to make. She stood a few secondsleaning towards the glass, as she had stood that birthday night afterher husband had taken her to dine at the Royal Red, and she fingeredher blouse, her hair, her manicure tools passionately, sadly andappealingly, as if she begged them: "Do your best. " The underlyinganxiety which her confidences to Julia had awakened looked haggardlyfrom her face. 

"I am growing very old, " she thought, terrified. "I am growing mucholder than thirty-one. I look older than Osborn. "

She was quivering to woman's ageless problem, the problem of the body, the problem of the tired brain and the driven heart; the problem ofthe great and cruel competition between the woman of pleasure and thewoman of toil. 

While she still stood there, she heard her husband's key in the lock. 

She put up her hands to smooth the worry away from her face and, withthe impress of her fingers white on her flushed cheeks, stared atherself again. Surely that was better? She wore a smile, the smile ofthe Wise Wives, and went out to meet him. He was shedding hisovercoat, and as he hung it up he whistled a tune with joy in it. Shewas struck instantly by something about him, a tiny but materialchange, which she could not fathom. 

"Hallo, old girl!" he turned to say cheerfully. 

"Hallo, dear!" she replied. 

"Dinner ready?"

"Quite! I'll bring it in. "

He went into the dining-room and stood on the hearth in the attitudelong appropriate to a master of the house. His eyes were shining, though his brow still wore its habitual creases as if he were thinkingvery carefully. He stared before him, but without noting anything. They still had a pretty dinner-table, a dinner-table almost, if notquite, up to early-married standards, and the shaded candles werelighted and beneath them there were cut flowers. He never wondered howMarie managed to stretch that weekly thirty-two and sixpence to coverthe cost of a third baby, occasional new candle-shades and perpetualflowers. It was better not to inquire. Inquiry raised ideas andsuggestions and requests. He could not afford to inquire. It struckhim vaguely this evening, as he stood looking out somewhere beyond thedining-room and whistling his happy tune, that everything was veryfairly comfortable. 

His wife came in with a big tray and arranged the dinner temptinglyupon the table. When it was all ready he drew up his chair and satdown with an air of appetite. And he talked; it was as if he exertedhimself to interest her and to be interested, himself, in all that shesaid. He listened and commented upon her day's shopping, asked whereshe lunched, heard about her visit to Julia at a chic club, andobserved lightly how fashionable she was getting. 

He said she looked tired to-night, and must take care of herself. 

He was going to stay at home this evening, to sit by the fire and talkto her; his manner was almost loverlike, and her heart thrilled to itas she had not thought it could thrill again. She looked at him witheyes in which her wonder showed; and in her quietened body her passionseemed to raise its subdued head again, sweet and strong and young. 

"I shan't be two minutes clearing away, " she said, when they rose. Shefelt no more fatigue, but piled all the things on the big tray andcarried it out to the kitchen almost like a feather-weight, and inless than the two minutes she had assigned, she was back again withthe coffee things, her feet light and her eyes dreaming. She drew herchair nearer his before the hearth, and stretched out her hand to him, hungering across the space. He squeezed and dropped it, and leanedforward, clearing his throat as if he were going to speak words ofmoment. 

He checked himself and obviously said something else. 

"Your coffee is good, dear; you do look after me in a simply topholeway. "

His words were like the prelude of a song to her. She listened formore, with a smile, a real smile, no more wise, but foolish. It hadthe foolishness of all love in it, so easily and completely could hegive her pain, or pleasure. 

He answered the smile with one of constraint. 

Feeling in the pocket of his lounge coat, he uttered abruptly:

"I brought you a few sweets, dear; passed a shop on my way; thought--"

He handed over a packet of chocolates and sat back with a sighexpressive of satisfaction, while, with a cry of delight andgratitude, she untied the ribbons. 

"You are a dear!" she said tremulously. "I must share them with thechildren; and this pink ribbon--pink for a girl, blue for a boy! It'lldo for baby's bonnet. What lovely ribbon, silk all through!"

"Oh, well, they weren't cheap chocolates, " Osborn observed. 

"I see that. They're delicious. " She broke one slowly between herteeth. Sweets! They brought back those dear old spoiled-girl days toher; precious days which no woman values till she has lost them, andthe prize of which no man understands. 

"Glad you like them, " he said, looking at her with a strange, analmost guilty softness. "I like you to have things that you enjoy. Youknow that, don't you?"

"Of course I do, dear. "

Osborn cleared his throat and leaned forward again, his clasped handsbetween his knees. He looked down at the hands attentively, appearingto take an undue interest in them. 

He began slowly:

"Er--speaking of things you'd enjoy, old girl, we--we've often talkedabout--wondered when--my ship would be coming in. Grand to see her, wouldn't it be, steaming into harbour, fine as paint, full cargo andall?"

He choked slightly over his words, as with excitement, and thatshining in his eyes intensified. She caught it as for a moment helifted them, and it took her breath away, but in the same instant sheknew that this shining was not for her. 

"Osborn!" she uttered, and could say no more. 

He continued: "I've got something to tell you. "

"I felt it when you first came in. Oh, Osborn, darling, don't keep mewaiting. What is it?"

"Well--in a way--it's what we've both been thinking of--"

"The ship's--come in!"

As she breathed rather than spoke the words she sank back in herchair; her conviction was so sure that she could have shrieked withecstasy; yet at the same time it came with such an overpowering reliefthat she had the sensation of one kept too long from sleep lying downat last to rest. She would have been content to wait, until after along dreamful contemplation of the news, for detail and description ofthe voyage and adventure of the most elusive craft in the world, onlythat, once off, Osborn plunged on as if he would have her know all assoon as might be. 

He started again, with scarcely a pause, after just a nod to confirmher exclamation. 

"I'll begin at the beginning. That's the best way, eh, old girl? I seeit's staggered you as it staggered me. Woodall--you've heard me speakof Woodall, one of our travellers?--was just about to start for a longtrip--New York, Chicago, then Montreal and all over Canada, California, then New Zealand; it was a fine trip, selling our Runawaytwo-seater. Well, when I got to our place this morning the boss sentfor me at once, and told me the news about poor old Woodall--knockeddown by a taxi in the street last night, and now in hospital for theydon't know how long. The tickets were bought and the tour arranged, and--and--in short, you see, they'd got to pick another man at amoment's notice, to go instead. And so--"

The wife leaned forward, her eyes opened wide and warily on herhusband's face. Not looking at her, he rattled on:

"So the boss offered it to me. You don't need telling that I accepted, do you?"

She replied, "No, " in a quiet voice. 

"I knew you'd think I ought to take it, " he said, with a swift glanceat her. "Of course, it mayn't be permanent, but I think it's up to meto make it so. I guess I can hold down a job of that kind as well asanyone else, if I've the chance. It's a fine chance! Do you know whatit means?"

She uttered a questioning sound. 

"Five hundred a year, " he said huskily, "with a good commission andall expenses paid. The expenses are--are princely. You see, a fellowselling motors isn't like a fellow selling tea. He's got to do thesplendid--get among the right people; among all sorts of people. Oh, it'll be life!"

Passion was subdued again in her; it was old and drowsy and quiet. Knitting her fingers tightly round her knee, she rocked a little, andasked:

"When do you start?"

"Of course it's rather sudden--"

"So I understood from what you said. When will it be, Osborn?"

"To-morrow. "

She stared into his face, unbelieving. 

"To-morrow?" she whispered. 

He got up hurriedly and fumbled about the mantel-piece in a fakesearch for cigarettes. 

"You see, I've got to follow out Woodall's programme exactly; he wouldhave started to-morrow. "

"How--how long will you be away?"

"A year. "

"A year!" she half screamed. "Oh, no! no! no!"

He looked at her with something of fear and something of sulkiness. Hewas on the defensive, willing to be very kind, but resolute not to benagged nor argued with. "Don't, " he protested, "don't take it likethat. "

"I'm sorry, dear, " she said more quietly. "It hit me, rather. To-morrow is so soon, and a year is such a long, long time. "

"Not so very. A year's nothing. Besides, I've got to go; it's no usemaking a fuss, is it?"

"I won't make a fuss. "

"There'll be a good deal to do. I wanted you to look over my thingsto-night. I'll help you carry them in here, shall I?"

She rose mechanically and went into the erstwhile dressing-roomquietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping children. He waited in thedoorway, and she handed out to him pile after pile of his underwear, following the last consignment by carrying out a big armful herself. They returned to the dining-room and laid the garments on the table. 

"Sorry to give you so much trouble all at once, " he apologised. 

He lighted a pipe and sat down again by the fire, while she stood overthe heaps on the table, sorting them with neat fingers that hadlearned a very considerable speed in such tasks, and picking out hereand there a shirt or vest which needed further attention. She waswhite with a kind of grey whiteness like ashes, and in her heart andthroat heavy weights of tears lay. She talked automatically to keepherself from exhibition of despair. 

"I'll darn that; it's as good as new except for one thin patch. Theseshirts have lasted very well, haven't they? The colour's hardly fadedat all. You ought to have had new vests, but I daresay you'll haveample opportunity for buying them. To-morrow morning I'll sponge yournavy suit with ammonia. What time are you going? _T-t-teno'clock_?. . . 

"I'll sponge it before breakfast. You may want to put it on. I'm goingto look for that glove you lost; it was a seven-and-sixpenny pair; weought to find it. " And things like this she continued to say to him, lest, the fantastic fancy of her grief whispered to her, he shouldhear her heart painfully breaking. 

He answered with alacrity, the same alacrity of response which he hadshown, at dinner; and he handed to her the packet of chocolates, asking jocularly: "Isn't she going to eat her sweets?"

She broke one slowly between her teeth again; it had an extraordinarybitter taste which remained in the mouth. She hated the packet ofsweets for its smug, silly mission of comfort. 

Comfort!

How queer women's lives were!

What did men really think regarding their wives? What did Osbornthink, sitting there in his accustomed chair, with his accustomed pipebetween his teeth and his new and gorgeous plans causing his eyes toshine?

She knew now the wherefore of his eyes shining. He was looking out ata wonderful adventure; at freedom. 

Freedom!

What right had he to freedom?

She turned to him with a remark so abrupt that it was exclamatory:

"It will be a good holiday for you. "

"Great!" he answered, his satisfaction bursting forth, "great!"

"I wish I could come with you. "

"Ah, " he said, "ah!. . . " She watched him with a knifelike keennesswhile he reflected, and she read the stealthy gratification of thethought he voiced next: "But you can't, old girl There are thekiddies. "

"Do you suppose I don't know that?"

"Oh, well; I knew you were only joking. "

Joking?

What a joke!

"I shall try to save a bit of money for the first time in my life, " hesaid. "I'll leave you a clear two hundred for yourself and thekids--that's all right, isn't it? Two hundred, and you won't have myenormous appetite to cater for! You'll do very well, won't you, Mrs. Osborn?"

"Thank you. We shall do quite well. "

"I'll arrange at the bank, and give you a chequebook. "

She said next:

"A whole year! Baby'll forget you. "

The remark seemed to him peculiarly womanish and silly. What on earthdid it matter, anyway? But he had patience with her, knowing howsorely better men than he were tried by their wives. 

"Well, " he observed, "kids' memories are very short, aren't they?"

Marie went on sorting the clothes; presently she drew a chair to thetable, and began to work with needle and thread, darning, tighteningbuttons, performing the many jobs which only a wife would find. As shesewed she glanced again and again at her husband; he had sunk deepinto his chair in an abandonment of rest, his legs stretched beforehim, his pipe between his teeth, his shining eyes fixed upon the fire. Now and again his lips twitched to a smile over the pipe stem. He wasthinking, imagining, revelling in the freedom of the approaching year. The marriage task had infinitely wearied him. For a year, with awell-lined pocket, and a first-class ticket, he was to travel awayfrom it all. He was deeply allured, and his delight was again youngand robust; he looked forward most eagerly, as a school-boy to apromising holiday. 

After she had sewed awhile with a methodical tightening of all thebuttons, and an unconscious tightening of her lips too, she said:

"Well, you'll come back and find us all the same. "

He roused himself slightly. 

"I hope so. Take care of yourselves. "

She could have screamed at him. 

"We shall jog along here, " she said. 

He looked at her abstractedly. "Take the kids to Littlehampton in thesummer; give yourselves a change. Your mother'll go with you, Idaresay. "

"How jolly!"

He took her seriously. He seemed so densely absorbed in what wascoming to him that he only just heard her reply. 

He said absently: "I hope it will be; look after yourselves. "

She went back, in her busy mind, to the honeymoon adventure on whichthey had both embarked six and a quarter years ago. Then they had goneout hand-in-hand like children into a big dark and they had foundlight. Now they had dropped hands; and at the first chance he ran offalone, a boy once more, hungry for thrills. A strong yearning rose inher to run after him, catch his hand again, and set out with him. Butthere was much in the way; the butcher and baker, speaking through hermouth, had dulled his ears to her voice; he had forgotten how to holdhands; they were out of tune. Nature had sent them, all those yearsago, converging together; and married life had sent them apart again. 

Married life!

She traced the pattern of it, which she saw in her mind, upon thetable with her needle tip--

[Illustration:Osborn \ / Osborn \ / \/ [Symbol: Moon] Honeymoon /\ / \ Marie / \ Marie]

It was like that. 

She saw wet drops falling upon the table; they were her tears. Herhusband happened to look up at the moment, and, seeing them too, looked hastily away again. He did not want to see them; there were toomany tears in marriage. 

But soon he would be away from marriage for a whole year. 

He did not want her to cry; it was terribly irritating, and she hadcried too much--not lately, but in the first years. Lately she haddisciplined herself better, become more cheerful, realised, no doubt, that she was quite as well off as other men's wives, and really hadnothing to weep for. But, in case those tears which had fallen shouldbe precursors of one of the old storms, he knocked out his pipe, rose, and said:

"Well, I'll be off to bed. I shall have a lot to do to-morrow. "

She answered: "Very well, dear. I shan't be long. "

The door shut upon him and she was alone. She listened for the closingof the bedroom door upon him, knowing that then he would not comeback, knowing that he had seen and feared her tears. Then she droppedher work, and ran over to the hearthplace, and, kneeling down by hischair still warm from the impress of his body, laid her head upon it, and cried terribly. 

When she had married him she gave up her life and took his instead. Ifhe removed it, how should she live? She had become so much a part ofhim that her suffering was devastating; it was physical. And now, giving rein to herself, her sex side tugged at her pitilessly. Jealousy tore through her like a hot wind. She had a dozen grey hairs, a thin throat, a tired face, rough hands, two spoiled teeth in thefront upper row. That was not the worst; the gaiety of her wit hadbeen sapped. She could not have kept two men amused at a dinner tableas that raven woman in the Royal Red did had her life depended uponit. Six years ago she could. She could have had them in her white, pretty hands; but not now. Not now! Never any more!

Never had she wept as she wept now before Osborn's chair in the silentdining-room, and when it seemed as if all founts of tears had run dry, so that she was left merely sobbing without weeping, she collectedherself to pray. 

She prayed:

"O God, teach men! Teach Osborn. Let them know. Let them think andhave pity. Make him admire me, God. Make him admire me for thechildren I've suffered over, even if my face is spoiled. But, God, don't let me be spoiled. Can't I recover? O God, why do You spoilwomen? It's not fair. Help me! Keep him from the other women--thewomen who are fresher and prettier than me. Help me to fight. Let mewin. Keep him loving me. Keep him thinking of me every day. ForChrist's sake. "

And after that she prayed on in some formless way till the clockstruck half-past eleven, and a rapping came upon the other side of thewall, and with it sounded Osborn's muffled voice. 

He somehow guessed that she would cry a little; get things overquietly by herself. It was the best way. But it was now half-pasteleven. . . . 

She rose, rapped back, and tidied her hair quickly before the roundmirror over the mantelpiece. Her face was ravaged. But in the bedroomshe would have to undress by a very subdued light lest she awakenedthe baby, so he would not see, even if he wished to see. She knew, however, that he did not wish it. After making neat piles of thescattered garments again, she raked out the fire, switched off thelights, and went quietly into the bedroom. 

His voice was a little testy to conceal his apprehensions. 

"I must say you haven't hurried! You haven't been _making_ mehalf a dozen new shirts, have you, old girl?"

She replied in a carefully-steadied tone: "There was a good deal todo, and I wanted to finish it. "

He pulled his bedclothes up higher around him. "Well, thanks awfully. Afraid I rushed you. You won't be long now, will you? I want to get tosleep, and I can't with someone moving about. "

"I'll be quick. There's baby's bottle to do--it's long past time. Shehasn't waked, I suppose?"

"No; hasn't made a sound. "

Marie lighted the spirit stove, and put the baby's food on while sheundressed. Osborn watched her apprehensively, not knowing that sheknew of what he did. But she wasn't going to make a fuss. 

He was very thankful for that. 

Every time she turned towards him he closed his eyes quickly, fearingconversation which he need not have feared. She could not have talkedto him. When the food was ready and the bottle given, she was glad tocreep into her own bed, erect a similar barricade of sheet andblankets, and sink into a sort of coma of grief and depression. In afew minutes Osborn slept. 

When Marie opened her eyes on the twilight of early winter morning itseemed to her that she could scarcely have had time to close them, buther bedside clock showed her, to her surprise, that she had beensleeping all night. The greatness of the shock had passed, and she hadto concern herself imminently with all the bustle of Osborn'sdeparture. As he was not going to business to-day, not going out atall, in fact, until he left gloriously, like a man of leisure, in ataxicab at ten o'clock, he did no more than unclose a sleepy eye whenhis wife sprang out of her bed and murmur:

"I say, old girl, you will do my packing, won't you?"

"Yes. I'm extra early, on purpose. "

So in the grey dawn, Marie went about her business. She packedsuit-case and kit-bag and hat-box, and placed the labels ready forOsborn to write; she dressed George and bade him help thethree-year-old to dress; she brushed the rooms and lighted the fires;made the morning bottle for the baby; saw that boiling hot shavingwater was ready for Osborn; gave the children their breakfast; cookedan unusually lavish one for the traveller; and had accomplished allthese things by the time he was dressed and ready at nine o'clock. 

He glowed with health and cheer. The creases in his brow were smoothedout; his smile was ready; his voice had its old boyish ring. 

Because he was going away from them the metamorphosis occurred whichrived the wife's heart afresh. He was so glad to go. 

He sat down with a great appetite to breakfast, while she faced himbehind the tea tray. The baby, being unable to help herself as yet, was still imprisoned in her cot in the bedroom until such time as hermother could attend to her, and on the dining-room floor George andthe three-year-old, ordered to keep extremely quiet and inoffensive, played with their bricks. Now and again an erection of bricks toppleddown accidentally with a shattering noise, when Osborn exclaimed:"Shut up, you kids!" and their mother implored: "Do try to keep quietwhile Daddy's here. "

The parents made conversation at breakfast, but not much. It was keptmainly to material things relevant to the moment, such as:

"You packed _all_ my thin shirts, didn't you?"

"Except the striped one, which has gone too far. I'll make it up forGeorge. "

"Have you written the labels?"

"No. I didn't know where to. "

"All right. I'll do 'em. It's a jolly morning for a start, isn't it?"

"Yes. I'm so glad. "

"I'll write and give you an address as soon as I can. I shall be ableto find out to-day about mails, I expect. Yesterday I really didn'tthink of inquiring. 'Sides, I hadn't time. And I can tell you, I wasall up a tree with excitement. "

"Of course you were. It'll be a lovely holiday for you. "

"Wish you could come too. Look after yourselves, won't you?"

"Yes, thanks, dear. "

"Did you tell the porter to get a taxi at ten?"

"No! George can run down and do it now. George, run down and tell theporter Daddy wants a taxi at ten sharp. "

Marie rose to unlatch the front door for George and returned. 

The hour went past like a wheeled thing gathering velocity down anever steeper and steeper slope. It was extraordinary how quickly itflew, and the moment came for the good-bye. She looked at him, and herheart seemed to beat up in her throat. If only he would have thrownhis arms around her and been very sorry to go! She wanted a longgood-bye in the flat, where no one could see and pry upon her anguish. But he had been married for six such long years that perhaps he hadforgotten the romance and passion of good-byes. He kissed George; hekissed the three-year-old; he kissed her a kiss of mere every dayaffection; then, taking a hand of each of the children, he said gaily:

"All come down to see Daddy start, won't you?"

The hall porter came up for the bags. Osborn helped the excitedchildren down the long flights of grey stone stairs, and she followed. During the business of stowing the luggage on the cab, she took thechildren from Osborn, and, heedless of the passers-by, put up herlonging face once more. 

"Good-bye, " she said tremulously. 

He kissed her again quickly, turned away, jumped into the cab, and shesaw the shining of his eyes through the window. He pulled the strapand let it down. "Be good kids, " he exhorted. "Bye-bye, dear! Bye-bye, all of you! Take care of yourselves!"

He was gone. 

Marie stood bareheaded in the bleak wind, holding a hand of each ofher children, to watch his cab down the street. After it haddisappeared she still stood there, gazing blankly at the place of itsvanishing, till at last the younger child, shuddering, complained:"Mummy, I's so told. "

"Are you, darling?" she said tenderly, lifting the blue mite in herarms. She carried her child up all the grey stone stairs, Georgefollowing, and they re-entered the flat. 

It had an air of missing someone very desolately. 

Her face puckered suddenly and she was afraid she was going to cryagain, before the children, but George stood in front of her, examining her minutely, and she straightened her lips. 

"Mummie, " said George, "you hasn't barfed poor baby. "

"You come and help Mummie do it, " she answered. 

The procession of three went together into the bedroom, where thelong-suffering baby had begun at last to protest. The rumpled bedswere as she and Osborn had left them, and the room looked soiled. Sheinspected it for a moment before she turned to the business of bathingand dressing the baby. 

Osborn's late breakfast had made her late with the housework, but itdidn't matter. There was no one to work for, cook for, keep up thestandard for. For a few minutes she thought thus. 

George and the three-year-old gave her a great deal of help with thebaby. Their little fat, loving faces turned to her in the utmostworship and faith, and they trotted about, vying with each other inbringing her this and that for the infantile toilet. And when it wasaccomplished, George took charge of the baby in the dining-room whilehis mother turned to the work which he was accustomed to seeing herdo. It was as if a great gift of sympathy for his mother in her hourof need had descended into his small heart. 

Marie's first task lay in the bedroom; when she had made her own bed, she turned to Osborn's, and slowly and thoughtfully, one by one, shefolded up the blankets for storage in the cupboard, dropped the sheetsand pillow-case into the linen-basket without replacing them, and thenspread the pink quilt over the unmade bed. 

It would be a year before Osborn wanted it again. _A year!_

A few things of his lay about the room; only a few, for all that weregood enough to pack she had packed. She suddenly advanced upon thesefew trifles, swept them together, and pushed them out of sight in adrawer. Again she looked around. The room seemed expressive now onlyof her own entity; she was entirely alone in it. 

She advanced to Osborn's bed again, ripped off the quilt and mattress, and bent her strength to taking apart and folding the iron bedstead. It was really a man's task, but she accomplished it, and carried itinto the dressing-room, where she put it against the wall, in acorner. Again she returned to her own room and looked around. Her bed, her toilet things, everything was hers. True, the baby's cot stoodthere; otherwise it was a virgin room. 

Anger had muffled the grief in her heart. 

"Well, " she said, "I have no husband. "

CHAPTER XVII

REVIVAL

She began to tidy the room automatically. Through the partitioningwall she could hear George crooning like a guardian angel to hischarge, and she smiled tenderly. "The darling!" she thought. Hisimmature and uncomprehending sympathy warmed her chilled heart asnothing else could have done. She had a great new sensation ofleisure; there was all day to potter about in and no one to preparefor in the evening. 

Life was now timeless, without the clock of man's habits. Nothingmattered. 

She sat down idly before her dressing-table and met again her sallowedface in the mirror. The sight stirred her anger vigorously once more. Wrathfully she wanted to do something--anything--and, to keep herfingers busy, pulled open one of the top drawers of the dressing-table. Confusion met her, for it was the untidy drawer beloved of woman; thedrawer where ribbons and lace and scent sachets and waist-belts andflowers and face powder lay pell-mell. For a long while the drawer hadnot had the periodical setting straight which woman grants it, and itscontents were aged, dingy and undesirable--camisole-ribbons likeboot-strings, lace collars long out of fashion, a rose or two crumpledinto flat and withered blobs, shapeless and faded. She touched thingssorrowfully. 

"My pretty things!" she thought with regret. 

At what precise moment the idea came to her she did not know, but itintruded by degrees. She began to think idly of money, to turn over inher mind the exact allowance with which Osborn had left her, and sheknew herself rich. Till yesterday her domestic budget, for herself, the children and Osborn, had been at the rate of about one hundred andforty pounds a year. He had to have the rest. Now she had two hundredand no man to keep. It would have taken a woman to understand why shesuddenly sprang up, why her sallowed face took on a hasty colour, andwith what an incredulously beating heart she hastened down the greystone stairs to the hall-porter's box. 

"Porter, " she said, controlling her voice with difficulty, "I want acharwoman at once; and--and for two or three hours every morning. Youcould find one for me?"

Like every other block of flats, the place was infested with ladies ofthe charing profession, and he promised her one within half an hour. Returning to her children, she sat down at ease in the dining-room toawait the woman's arrival. 

When she came, it was joy to show her round; to say: "I want thebedroom and hall and kitchen done; these things washed up; and thesevegetables prepared. And these things of the children's washed out, please. I shall be back before you've finished. "

Then she put on the children's outdoor things, established the babyand the three-year-old at either end of the perambulator and, withGeorge walking manfully by her side, set out upon an errand. 

She was going to tell her mother of what had befallen; she hardly knewwhy, but the wisdom of matronly counsel and opinion, irritating as itwas, had impressed her forcibly during the past years. So she andGeorge trundled the shabby grey perambulator, Rokeby's gift, acrossthe Heath, and along the intervening streets to Grannie Amber's. 

They left the perambulator in the courtyard and made a slow journey upthe stairs to her nice flat on the first floor. That flat, which hadseemed so small and old-fashioned to the girl Marie, appeared as ahaven of refuge and comfort to the woman. It was so warm, so quiet andstill. When they arrived there, Grannie Amber was comfortably sewingby her cosy fire, while her charwoman got through the work there wasto do. She was surprised and somewhat uneasy to see her daughter soearly, but she bustled about to settle them comfortably, taking thebaby upon her lap, and bringing out queer old games from cunninghiding-places for the others, as grannies do. 

When George and the three-year-old were presumably absorbed, shelifted an anxious, cautionary eyebrow at Marie, and waited to hear thenews. 

"Osborn's gone away for a year, mother, " Marie announced quietly. 

Mrs. Amber did not reply for a few moments, but her elderly faceflushed with red and her eyes with tears; she was so nonplussed thatshe hardly knew what to say, but at length she asked:

"What does that mean, duck?"

"He has got a splendid appointment, owing to an accident to one of thefirm's travellers, " said Marie steadily. "He only knew yesterday, andhad to start at ten this morning, so you may guess we've been verybusy. It will keep him away for a year and he's going to travel--oh!over nearly half the world, selling the new Runaway two-seater; andthe salary is five hundred a year and a good commission and verygenerous expenses. "

She was glad to have got it all out almost at a breath, without a signof a breakdown; and the eyes of Grannie Amber, who was not meant tounderstand and knew better than to show she did, kindled at herdaughter's courage. 

"I am so sorry, duck, " she murmured sympathetically. "You'll both havefelt the parting very much; but it'll be a splendid holiday forOsborn; and--and I'm not sure whether it won't be a splendid holidayfor you, too. "

Marie met her mother's eyes with a full look. 

"I am not sure, either, mother, " she said quietly. 

Grannie Amber looked down at the baby's small, meek, round head. 

"You need a rest, " she murmured, "and this money will help you, won'tit, love?"

"I have two hundred a year, clear, for the children and myself. "

"He might have halved it!" said Grannie, in a sudden, indignant cry. 

Marie replied with a look of steel: "I don't think so at all, mother. And men always think that women ought not to have the handling of toomuch money, you know. "

"_Don't_ I know!" said Grannie, with unabated venom. 

"Osborn has left me plenty. It's far more than I managed on before. "

"I'm glad of that, duck. "

"Directly Osborn had gone I suddenly thought--and I got in acharwoman. She's there now. It did seem queer. "

"Oh, that's good, my love. I _am_ glad of that. Now you'll restyourself and get your looks back, and I shall be round a great deal tohelp you with the children. "

"I want to ask you to do something for me to-day, mother. "

"Certainly, my love. Just name it. "

"I--I want a free day. To go into town and lunch and walk about bymyself; no household shopping to do; no time to keep; no cooking tohurry back for. . . . "

"What a funny idea, duck!" replied Grannie, still carefully keeping upthe attitude of old dunderhead; "but I'm sure I'll be only toodelighted to go back home with you, and take the children out on theHeath this afternoon. And I'll put them to bed, too. You'll help mewith these very little children, won't you, Georgie?"

"'Ess, G'annie, " replied George importantly. 

"Mummie needn't hurry back, need she, Georgie?"

"She tan 'tay out all night, " replied George, showing a generousbreadth of mind. 

Grannie and mother both laughed heartily. 

"I'll run and put on my things at once, " said Mrs. Amber, transferringthe baby to Marie's lap, "and I'll go back with you now. I'm an idleold woman with nothing to do, and it will be a delight to me to takethe children out. "

They trundled the grey baby-carriage back across the Heath, and toiledup the stone staircase of Welham Mansions to Number Thirty. All thewindows of the flat were opened; it looked almost fresh and brightonce more; and a charwoman of stout build was dealing competently withthe few remaining jobs. Marie paid her; instructed her to returnto-morrow, and went to make herself ready for town. 

She left home again at twelve-thirty, taking with her a replenishedpurse, and a stock of tremluous emotions. One was of dreadfulsolitude, a fear of loneliness, spineless and enervating; another ofdefiance; another of excitement; another of bravado; another almost ofshame. 

What should she, an old married woman with a family of three, wantwith a purposeless jaunt to town? Since the birth of George she hadnever done such a thing. She had never spent money on amusing herself, on passing an agreeable time. 

It was almost as if, directly her husband, the master of her life andher children's lives, turned his back, she filled her purse from thestore he had left behind him, and went off frivolling. 

"I do not care!" she said to herself fearsomely. "I do not care adamn. I'm off!"

One o'clock found her in the West End, a shabby, thin-faced woman ofthe suburbs, rubbing shoulders with scores of other women jostlinground the shop windows. All that she saw she longed for; but none ofit was she foolish enough to buy. Some cold prudence, an offshoot ofher curious anger of the morning which still lingered with her, restrained. Unformed, but working in her mind, was the beginning of animpression that during this coming year she had some definite courseto follow, plan to make; she felt, almost heroically, as if she weregoing to salve herself from something she had not, till lately, beforeher glass, dared to define. She saw that women, caught intricately inthe domestic toils, had a dreadful, hard, cunning battle to fight, andshe felt as if in some way she was just beginning to fight it, butthat it would tax her utmost resources. So she spent none of her moneyon the fashionable trifles of a moment, which she saw behind theplate-glass, but she gave herself a lunch. 

Debating long where to go, she went to the Royal Red and had a littletable in an obscure corner behind a pillar, where she could see, butwas hardly seen, even if anyone had wanted to look at this woman, apparently just one of a thousand suburban shoppers. She lingered longat her table to get to the full the worth of her three-and-sixpence;to watch the suave, gay women pass in and out, be fed and flatteredand entertained. The great furs laid across their slender shoulders, the ephemeral corsages beneath, the hint of pearls on well-massagednecks, the luring cock of a hat, the waft of a perfume that was yethardly so crude as definite perfume, all roused her hostility, herfighting sense. Not a woman there knew what passed behind the pillarin the breast and brain of the slim, shabby woman with the big eyesand wan face; none knew how she hated and feared; none knew of herprayers; none but would have smiled to hear that she even thought ofentering with them the arena of women. And had a man glanced once herway he would not have glanced twice. 

All this she knew; she was setting it down definitely in her mind, like writing. When it was written she was willing to read it over andover again till she had learned it by heart. 

She had eaten an ice Néapolitaine with voluptuous pleasure and, calling her waiter, ordered coffee and a cigarette. 

She was not going yet. 

It was a long while since she had smoked, or even thought of it; andthough she really did not care very much for smoking, she chose anexpensive Egyptian now with the utmost pleasure. What a sensation ofleisure it gave, this loitering at will, over a cup of coffee and acigarette! Besides, it gave her longer to watch her enemies, to learnthe modes and tricks of the day. 

After lunch she sauntered back into Regent Street and stopped by anAmerican Beauty Parlour. She went in and inquired the price of amanicure. It would be one-and-sixpence. So she entered a warm weecubicle full of beauty apparatus, sat down, and gave her right handfor the manicurist's ministrations. 

The manicurist was a lithe, tall girl, with a small young, wickedface; and meekly demure. Her hair was sleeked down provocatively overher ears, in which emerald drops dangled. She was an Enemy. As shetook her client's hand and dabbled the finger-tips in a tiny red bowlof orange-flower water, Marie wondered, without charity, who had givenher those earrings of green fire, and why. 

The girl talked sweetly, as she was taught to do. She remarked on thecoldness of the day and the trials of shopping in such bleak weather;on the bustle of the shops preparing for Christmas; on the smallnessof Madame's hands. 

They were a charming shape, might she say? But Madame had abused them. Madame had perhaps been gardening? Gardening was becoming sofashionable, with a sweet glance at the client's _ensemble_. Wasthat the reason for those broken cuticles, those swollen fingertipsand brittle nails? It was a thousand pities. 

Knowing, as she spoke, the futility, the obviousness of the lie, yetsomehow unable to help speaking it, Marie answered in abruptconfusion. Yes, she had been gardening; it--it was a favourite hobbynowadays; all her friends. . . . 

With that sleek face before her, those fragile fingertips handlinghers, she would not for a fortune have confessed: "I spoil my handsbecause I spend my days between the stove and the sink; because I'vecooked and swept and sewed for a man and three children; because Iwash and iron. " Secretly the manicurist would laugh and ridicule; inher smooth white face and twinkly eardrops was the story of what shewould think of such a domestic fool; of the woman who was the slave ofman and home; who had lost her looks and hope in the servitude ofmarried poverty. 

Presently the finger-nails were done; they did not look a great dealbetter even now, but they felt charmingly petted and soothed. Againthe manicurist ran her eye over the other from head to heel, lettingher glance rest at last upon her face. 

"A face massage, madame?" she suggested. 

Marie hesitated, and the girl added, smiling: "It would be half acrown. "

"I have not time to-day, thank you, " Marie said, rising. She paid forthe manicure and left the warm and scented place; she had nowhereparticular to go, no one to talk to, and yet she did not wish to gohome so early. It would have been a tame ending to her day and, besides, she had not seen all yet. She wanted to see the lights riseand twinkle along the streets, to watch the evening life come in likea tide, wave upon wave breaking musically upon the city's shore; andto feel that even then, though six o'clock had passed, and seven, andeight, she was yet her own mistress. She was sampling sensations, notaltogether new, but at any rate long forgotten. It occurred to her, asshe turned out of the Beauty Shop, to go and call upon someone; butupon whom? She knew, as she asked the question of herself, that, whileshe had lost a score of light-hearted acquaintances upon her weddingday, she had since been too busy to make more. There were upon herlimited horizon, in fact, only Julia and Rokeby. Julia, at this momentstill afternoon, would be involved in much business, someone else'sbusiness which she could not put aside as if it were her own to do asshe pleased with; but Rokeby called no man master. 

She hardly knew why she thought of going to tell Rokeby her news, butthere was a want in her, a want of a wise someone's comments, a kindsomeone's sympathy. She boarded a City omnibus and was carried to KingWilliam Street. 

Here Desmond had his prosperous shipbroking office, and made hisenviable thousands and sharpened his innately sharp brain, so wellconcealed below his lacklustre, almost naïve, exterior. 

A lift carried her up to the third floor, where she arrived before adoor upon the glass panels of which were blazoned his name andprofession, and pushing it open, she asked for him uncertainly. Aclerk said doubtfully: "Have you come about the typist's situation?"and looked at her in a summary fashion which made her timid. 

She hated this timidity which had grown upon her with the marriedyears; a timidity based upon loss of trust in her womanly powers, lossof the natural arrogance of beauty. Holding her head very erect, shereplied:

"I am a friend of Mr. Rokeby's. Will you kindly say that Mrs. OsbornKerr has called?" Second thoughts sent her fumbling in her bag andproducing a card. 

"You had better send in my card, " she said. 

Desmond was busy with a client when the card was laid before him, butwhen he had glanced at it, he took it up and looked again, as if notbelieving his eyes. "In five minutes, " he told the clerk; and, turningto the client, he clinched in that remarkably short while anarrangement which they had been discussing and quarrelling over forhalf an hour. 

He stood up, waiting for Marie to enter. When she came, he was struck, not having seen her since the birth of the third baby, by the furtheralteration in her. How thin she was! And quiet! With that dullnesswhich, in his judgment, too much domesticity always brought to women. Like most ultra-modern men, while secretly making a fetish of thesofter virtues in woman, he wanted them expressed somehow in anup-to-the-minute setting. Yet he understood dimly the struggle oftwentieth-century woman in trying to make herself at once as new asto-day and as old as creation. 

"Well, this is nice, " he said very kindly, taking her hand withdeference. "I've a free hour, and lo! you come to fill it. Let me pullthe visitor's chair right up to this fire, and give you a cup of tea. "

His kindness and attention were all about Marie with the benevolenceof a new warm garment on a cold day. She sat down in the great softchair which he wheeled forwards for her, loosened her out-of-date furneckwear, and looked around her with feminine interest. 

"What a pretty office!" she said. "And you have flowers. "

"Ladies sometimes come to tea, " he replied smilingly, pressing a bell. 

To the clerk he said: "Get tea from Fuller's, right away. "

"I ought not to hinder you, " said Marie; and, as she said it, therecame to her the fragrance of the memory how in her girl days she had, in the course of her business and pleasure, hindered many men likethis, and how pleased and flattered they were to be thus hindered. Shewished she could feel as sure of herself and her power to charmwithout the least exertion as she was then. She went on: "I reallyhardly know why I came, but I was in town; and I thought you'd like tohear the news about Osborn. He's gone, you know; gone. "

Rokeby wheeled right round to face her, in his swing chair: "I know, "he nodded, "at least I know the bare bones of it. He found time toring me up yesterday and give me an inkling. So you've really sent himoff, have you?"

"Yes; this morning, at ten. "

Rokeby felt for his words carefully, in view of what he saw in herface. 

"It must have been a rush for both of you. "

"It was. But things are better like that. There isn't so much time tothink. "

"No, " said Rokeby. 

"If I'd known he'd told you, I wouldn't have come round to hinder youthis afternoon. "

"Don't mention that word again, Mrs. Kerr. I'm proud and delighted. And I didn't hear much yesterday, and I want all of it. What's thewhole game?"

She sat there telling him; the fire flushed her face so that itswanness disappeared; and in their wonder and bewilderment her eyeswere big and solemn like a child's. But the composure to which she hadwon was complete. 

"It will be a splendid holiday for him, " she finished. "He hasn't hadone since we were married. Of course, we've been nearly every year tothe same rooms at Littlehampton, but with children it's different. Youcan hardly call it a holiday. "

"_You_ can't, I should think. "

She smiled seriously and passed it by. "He was like a schoolboy letout of school, " she said with a sudden jerkiness, "he was so pleased. Poor boy! I knew it must mean a lot to him not to have to worry aboutmoney any more for a whole year, and--and to get away. "

"Yes, " said Rokeby gravely, "yes. And how are _you_ going tocelebrate _your_ holiday, Mrs. Kerr?"

She looked at him quickly. A smile broke round her lips. "Do youknow, " she dared, as if shocked at herself, "last night I washeartbroken; this morning I was bitter; this afternoon I came up totown to try to shake it off--"

"I hope you've shaken it?"

"I--I hardly know. I shall miss him so when I get back. But--but I'vegot a whole year. _A year!_ But why bother you with these things?A woman would understand; Julia would. "

"I suppose you're making a day of it? Going to see Miss Winter thisevening perhaps, and tell her all about it?"

She scarcely noticed the eager note in his voice. 

"That's an idea!" she exclaimed. "I was wondering what I'd do aboutthis evening, and I was determined not to go home till ten o'clock. Idon't know why, but if I can make myself stay right away on my ownpleasure till then it will be like breaking a spell. But why I'mtalking like this to you I don't know. You'll think me mad. "

"No, I shan't. "

An office-boy staggered in with tea, and for a while the business ofit kept them lightly occupied, and talking inconsequently; butpresently Rokeby went back to:

"So you _are_ going to see Miss Winter this evening? Look here, Mrs. Kerr, Osborn would never forgive me if I let you go alone. I'lltake you--yes, please. Do let me! We'll both give her a surprise. "

Recovering a spark of the old audacity which her prettiness used tojustify, she laughed: "No, you won't. We shall want to talk--and_talk_. You'd be in the way. "

"I solemnly swear I won't. I'll wash up and do a lot of the jobsbachelor girls always keep for their men friends to do. I'll sit andsmoke in the kitchen. Honest, I will! There, now?"

Her laughter was real and merry. "_You_? What's come to you?"

"I hardly know, " said Rokeby quickly, in a low voice. 

Marie's hand and eyes were hovering critically over the dish of cakes;youth and delicious silliness had visited her, if but for an hour, anda curious kind of champagne happiness fizzed through her. Theearnestness of Desmond's sudden look passed her by; at the momentthere was nothing earnest in her; she was, all so suddenly, a holidaywoman out for the day. Selecting her cake, she began to eat it. 

"It will be awf'ly good of you to take me there, " she answered; "itwill be something to write and tell Osborn about. "

"Do wives have to hunt for topics for letters, as they have to huntfor suitable conversation, when husbands want it?"

"Oh! have you noticed that?"

"I've noticed my married friends seem to have very little of interestto say to each other. "

"Why is it?"

"I don't know. I think they give each other all they've got in a greatbig lump too soon. But I don't know; how should I?"

"I wonder if I could tell you. _I_ think it's because a mancarefully robs a woman of all power to have any interest outside herhome; but at the same time he votes her home interests too dull totalk about. "

"Married life!" said Rokeby quizzically. 

"But there are beautiful things in it; children, you know. I shouldn'thave said what I did. "

They let a silence elapse as if to swallow up the memory of the thingsMarie shouldn't have said, and after it he asked: "What time shall wego?"

At six o'clock they were speeding down Cannon Street, along theStrand, and the gaudier thoroughfares of the West, in a taxicab, toJulia's flat. 

Her delight at seeing Marie was obvious, but a veil of reserve seemedto drop over her vivid, strong face when she saw who escorted her. 

Rokeby would not take leave of Marie on the threshold, though; hefollowed her in and sat down, asking if he might stay. There was abouthim an air of smiling determination, and his eyes obstinately soughtJulia's, which as obstinately avoided his. She began to chatter, as ifto slur over a momentary confusion. 

"I've only been in ten minutes, and I was going to settle down to alonely evening. I'm awf'ly glad to have you, Marie darling. If Mr. Rokeby's going to stay he'll have to be useful. I'm afraid you find mealmost déshabillée, but I'm one of these sloppy bachelors, as youknow. "

But Julia had a taut way of putting on even a silk kimono, and shecould not have been sloppy had she tried; her lines were too fine andclean. 

The two women went away to Julia's bedroom, a little box like afurnisher's model, and there Julia gleaned Marie's news. But far fromgiving unmitigated sympathy, she was almost crudely congratulatory. 

"It's what most wives of your standing want badly. A year off. A yearto go to some theatres, to find their own minds again; to look aftertheir wardrobes, and thread all the ribbons in their cammies thatthey've been too busy to thread for ages. It's no good coming to mefor pity. I'm not sorry for you. "

"I--I'm not sure that I want you to be. I see what you mean. But--"

"But?"

"Last night, when I knew, I was just heartbroken. I don't know whenI've cried as I did. For a while I thought I'd just have to die. "

"You won't die. You'll renovate yourself; you'll get new feathers, like a bird in spring. "

Marie looked slowly at Julia. 

"I know. "

Julia began to smile, first a smile of inquiry, then of delight. "'Rah! 'rah!" she screamed softly; "we'll have Marie pretty again. "

Marie took off her hat and coat and began to fluff her crushed hair. 

"See my grey hairs, though, Julia?"

"They're nothing. "

"My teeth, of course, haven't been touched since I was married. Idon't know if I'll be able to afford that, but I'll try. "

"Marie, " said Julia, at an inexplicable tangent, "for heaven's sakewhy bring Desmond Rokeby here?"

"Oh, do you mind, dear? He brought me. "

"Mind!" said Julia, now inexplicably tart, "I don't mind! Why should Imind anything about him? Only--"

"Only?"

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter! Let's all be jolly, if he's got tostay. "

It was one of those gay, rowdy, delightful, laughing evenings whichcan happen sometimes. They were all three in the minute kitchentogether, Desmond taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves tocook, and excellently he cooked, too. Julia tied an apron around him, and Marie twisted up a cook's cap from grease-proof paper, and theylaughed like people who have discovered the finest jokes in the world. There was no care; there was no worry; no time-table. No Jove-likehusband, no fretting, asking wife, no shades of grocers and butchershad a place there. It was a great evening. No one was married. Everyone was young. Oh! it was jolly! jolly! jolly! All one wished--ifone stopped to wish at all--was that it might never end. 

But the end was at 9. 30, punctual to the stroke of Marie's conscience. At No. 30 Welham Mansions, Hampstead, were three little sleepers whodepended upon her for all they needed in the world, and over themwatched a tired old grannie who would fain go home to bed. Marie leftthe others suddenly, in case the strength of her resolution shouldfail her, crying, as she ran out:

"Now don't stop me! I'm going to put on my hat--and GO!"

Julia got up to follow her quickly, but quick as she was, Desmond wasquicker. He had his back against the closed door, facing her, and hesaid:

"Julia! we'll stop ragging. We're alone for just two minutes. Let meask you--"

"No!" she exclaimed rebelliously. 

"Yes, I will! You couldn't get the door open if you tried. Julia, eversince I saw you I believe I've wanted you, and every time I've triedto tell you you've checked me or driven me off somehow. Yet won't youthink--"

"I don't want to. "

"If you'd marry me--"

"You know you don't believe in marriage any more than I do. "

"Not for any fools. But we're different. Besides, you've altered me;converted me. You can do absolutely what you like with me. I'm yours. Let's--let's get married to-morrow and set an example to 'em all ofwhat married people should be. "

"Are you mad?"

"Yes, about you, " Rokeby replied. He had lost his naïve and lacklustrebearing, his eyes were alight and quick, and his fire warmed her asshe stood before him, mutinous yet afraid. 

"I shall never marry, " she said defiantly. 

"You will, sooner or later, " said Rokeby, "and you will marry me. I'llnever leave you till you've done it, and then--then I'll never leaveyou, either, Julia. " He advanced upon her, a sudden whirlwind, beforewhom she cringed back with a helpless sense she had never knownbefore. He opened his arms, enclosed her in them, and kissed her byforce, while she struggled and protested furiously under his lips. 

"Do you know, " he asked, "I came here to-night just to kiss you. Onlythat! I didn't hope for any more satisfaction, but some day I shallhave it. You're not what you think you are. And I'll make you veryhappy. As a looker-on I've seen a lot of the game called marriage, andI'd know _how_ to make you happy. Don't you believe it?"

Released, she retreated to the other side of the room. 

"I don't want to believe it; you'd better go; you've behaveddisgracefully, and I don't feel in the least like forgiving you. "

"Very well, " said Rokeby, as Marie's footsteps sounded on theparquetry of the corridor, "I'm going, but I shall come again, andagain! You won't get rid of me, I say, till you've married me. Andthen you'll never be rid of me. "

He swung round, laughing, and opened the door for Marie. 

"Now, Mrs. Kerr, I'm to see you well on your way home. "

She looked from one to the other, at Julia tall and flaming, andDesmond diffusing a kind of electricity. 

"I believe you two have been quarrelling; I ought not to have left youalone. "

"We have been quarrelling frightfully. Miss Winter is never going toallow me here again. "

"Glad you realise _that_, " said Julia frostily. 

He went out into the hall goodhumouredly to find his coat and hat, andMarie's umbrella, while the two women kissed good-bye. The fold ofkimono that covered Julia's bosom heaved rapidly and her eyes werevery bright. She would not offer Rokeby her hand, but went to thefront door with her arm round Marie's waist. 

They looked back to wave at her before they ran downstairs; she lookedvery tall and brilliant as she stood in her doorway, her head heldhigh, and her mouth tightly set, and when the door had shut upon her, Marie wondered aloud:

"What can have happened to annoy her so?"

"I've done it, " said Rokeby, "but don't worry over it. These thingsadjust themselves, and nothing matters at the moment, anyway, butseeing you safely home. "

"You can't come right out to Hampstead. "

"I can; and I should certainly like to, if I may. Osborn would neverforgive me for leaving you at this time of night. "

She thought how kind he was, and how restful. It was attractive to belooked after again, deferred to and considered. Rokeby drove her thewhole way out in a taxicab and found the sincerity of her thanks, asthey parted, very touching. As for Marie, not for years had sheclimbed all those cold stairs so buoyantly; and after her long day, asshe put her latchkey in the lock, she suddenly sensed the pleasure ofcoming home. There was nothing to do, in a rush, when she got in; nopreparations to make, or food to cook; no setting forward of work forto-morrow, for the charwoman was coming early. 

A man was a man certainly, and a quality to miss, but without himthere was a great still peace in the flat. 

Grannie Amber, blinking drowsily, came out of the dining-room to meether daughter. 

She noted the bright eyes and cheeks, and her heart beat joyfully. 

"Had a nice time, duck?"

"Lovely, mother. I lunched by myself at the Royal Red, and watched thepeople. Then I had my fingers manicured, and went to tell Mr. Rokebyabout Osborn, and had such a nice tea in his office; he's got such apretty office. Then he took me to Julia's flat, and we three haddinner together. Oh! we were jolly. Mr. Rokeby cooked; how we laughed!Julia made him wear one of her aprons, and I made him the sweetestcook-cap you ever saw. I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much. "

"He's a nice man, " said Grannie approvingly; "I wonder if he'sthinking of marrying Miss Winter?"

"Mother, your head always runs on somebody marrying somebody else. "

"Well, duck, I'm an old woman, and in my long life I've noticed thatthey always do. "

"Julia hates men. "

"I don't believe it, my love. "

Marie went into her dining-room and looked around it with a new senseof authority; she was now a complete law unto that room and all in it. 

"I've got a cup of soup for you here, dear, " said Grannie Amber, bustling to the fireplace. 

"Mother, you shouldn't trouble yourself! But how nice it is!" Shedrank gratefully, then put the usual question with the usual anxiety:

"Babes been well? And good?"

"They've been lambs, " said Grannie warmly. 

"What a pity I folded up Osborn's bed, and put it in the children'sroom! You could have slept here to-night, mother. "

"My duck, I'd rather sleep in my own bed, " said the old lady, "andI'll be putting my things on, and going there now. You have the womancoming in the morning?"

"Yes--and every morning. "

Mrs. Amber nodded approvingly. 

"You'll be very comfortable now, love. "

Then she muffled herself in her wraps and went out bravely into thecold towards the old-fashioned flat across the Heath; and Marie, undressing, went to her bed, too. How still it was! The tiny breathsof the baby scarce stirred the immediate air. 

Where would Osborn be now?

CHAPTER XVIII

INTRIGUE

Osborn passed that first night at the best hotel in Liverpool. Theterm "expenses" provided for the best, in reason, of everything; and agood man at his job need not be afraid of making claims. Osborn wasgoing to be a very good man at his job and, somehow, without any undueswelling of the head, he knew it. His chance had come, the big chancewhich had laid poor Woodall low, and sent him up, up, rejoicing. Whenthey carried his rather goodlooking luggage--which he had bought newfor his honeymoon--into a palatial bedroom of the Liverpool hotel, heexperienced, only with a thousand degrees more conviction, that senseof freedom from care which his wife was even then timidly grasping, far away in London. He was provided for handsomely and agreeably forthree hundred and sixty-five days. 

All his liabilities were provided for, too. No unexpected call couldcome to him, no fingers delve into the purse that he might now keepprivately to himself. He was going out into a big world where life hadnever taken him before, and he was going untrammeled; strong, young. 

Osborn dressed for dinner that evening; he wore the links hismother-in-law had given him as a wedding present, and a shirtwhose laundering had been paid for out of that omnipresentthirty-two-and-sixpence, and the jacket cut by the tailor whom he hadnever been able to afford since. He looked a very nice young man, fresh, broad and spruce, but not too spruce; open-browed, clear-eyedand keen. He was now at the zenith of his physical strength, in histhirty-second year, untired and still eager. As he dressed, he lookedat himself in the glass as a man regards himself upon his wedding day. 

He had remembered to find out about mails from Cook's and, beforegoing in to dinner, sat down in a great lounge and scribbled a note tohis wife; just this information, love, and a further injunction totake care of herself; and no more. Like other husbands who had beensimilarly placed domestically, he had no idea how this process oftaking care was to be accomplished by a harassed and busy woman, butit was some satisfaction to express a verdant hope that it should bedone. 

He went in, duty done, to an aldermanic dinner. He passed a verysuccessful evening. Actually, only on the eve of his mission, he solda Runaway car to a fat merchant prince who dined opposite to him; orat least he went as near to the actual selling as it was possible togo in the circumstances. He recommended him to their Liverpool agent, wrote a personal letter, gave his card and received one in return, andparted from his probable client with a feeling that the transactionwas going through. 

He was off at daybreak next morning. 

A stupendous piece of luck befell him on board. They were only twodays out when he found that a well-known theatrical management wastaking a play, with the entire London cast, to New York. It was onlyon the second day, when, looking across the dining saloon, he saw araven head on the top of a rather full neck and high shoulders, andmet the gay and luring glance which he had met once before, to hissecret thrill, across the Royal Red, on the night when he dined therewith his wife to celebrate her birthday. 

Osborn was a free man; he had broken routine and was out adventuring;and he was goodlooking, he looked worth while. She was a rather stupidactress, with no magnetism but her looks, and no possible chance ofever in this world obtaining a bigger part than the minor one she atpresent had inveigled from the manager; and she liked well-set-upsmart men, men who appeared as if they had money to burn. There wereno obstacles placed in Osborn's way. 

He was highly elated when the end of a week found him calling herfamiliarly "Roselle, " when he could walk the deck with her afterbreakfast, and join her party for bridge in the afternoons, andwithdraw to a warm corner of the saloon with her after dinner, thereto become better acquainted. He was at last, he said to himself, loosening those domestic chains which had hobbled him, and was doingmore as other men did. 

She gulled him into thinking her clever; all she said and did andlooked excited him; she was so different from the women whom men ofhis class married and with whom only they became intimate; a fellow ontwo hundred a year with a wife and family could not afford the societyof the stage. But a fellow with three hundred a year and anycommission his smartness could make, all just for mere pocket-money, was in a different boat altogether. The sums he staked at bridge withRoselle and her party on those winter afternoons in mid-Atlantic usedto keep the household at No. 30, Welham Mansions for a week. Sometimeshe won and sometimes he lost; but either seemed to him immaterial inthis new lightness of his heart. 

He was to be in New York two months, and she was to be there threemonths. 

She used to say reckless things to him which stirred the blood. Thus:"You and I, Osborn"--he knew, of course, that familiarity withChristian names was a trait of the stage--"have met, and presently weshall part; and what was the good of meeting if this dear littlefriendship is just to be packed up with our luggage?"

"You can pack up mine, and I'll pack up yours, " he said softly. 

"That's a sweet way of putting it; you're one of those light-heartedpeople who don't mind saying goodbyes. "

"I say, Roselle, do you?"

"Saying good-bye to fellow-souls is always sad. "

On the windy deck she used to wear a dark purple velvet hat sloucheddown and pinned close against her darker hair. It showed up thewhiteness of her face, which even the saltwinds could not whip intocolour, under the coating of white cosmetic almost imperceptibly laidon. Osborn loved that hat, as he loved the graceful tilt of her skirtand the fragility of her blouses; and sometimes it occurred to him toquestion why men's wives couldn't wear things like that. One sunnyafternoon they had, when, instead of playing bridge, they sat in asheltered corner on deck and talked. 

"Where are you putting up in New York?" she asked that afternoon. 

"At the Waldorf Astoria. "

"Are you really?" she said, and she thought in her shallow mind thathe must be very well off indeed. 

Osborn did not tell her that his firm sent him to an expensive hotelfor their own ends; it was pleasant to have her thinking what she did. He asked if he might call upon her in New York; if she'd have supperwith him sometimes; come for a run in his two-seater which he wastaking over with him. They made a dozen plans which, after all, couldnot hurt Marie, and the prospects of which were charming to a degree. 

They landed just before Christmas. 

Osborn had written his Christmas letters to his wife and children onboard, and his first errand on landing was to mail hastily-chosengifts to them. A box of sweets for the kids, a bottle of scent forMarie, these seemed to suit the occasion quite well. He evenremembered a picture-postcard view of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel tobear seasonable wishes to Grannie Amber. Then Roselle claimed him. 

Osborn had a good deal of odd time to put at her disposal, and shedisposed of it with no uncertain hand. His way was not so uphill as hehad expected; within a week he was touching big commission, biggerthan he had dreamed of, with the prospects of plenty to follow. Anddriving his electric-blue, silver-fitted Runaway two-seater about NewYork, or over to Brooklyn, he placed Roselle in her inevitable furcoat and slouched down purple velvet hat, as a splendid businessasset, beside him. At least he told his conscience that a smart womanin a car is unparalleled advertisement for it and perhaps he wasright; but that was not the reason for her presence there. 

When they said good-bye, under the wintry trees of the remotest partof a great park, it hurt him. He set his hands suddenly on hershoulders, and looked into her eyes; and then, it being almost dusk, and no one very near, he slid an arm round her, and held her to himfor one swift instant. When she let him kiss her, with a yielding aspassionate as response, he was surprised at his own stupidity in nottasting such sweets before. 

"I've got to go, " he said. "You've been a darling, to me. I'm crazyabout you; I suppose you know that?"

Her slow smile drove deep dimples into her white cheeks; she looked athim warmly; and yet, had he not been too excited to note it, with anacute appraisement. "We're to be here another month, " she said, notanswering his query, "leave me your address; you have mine. "

"Will you write?"

"Reams. And who knows? We may meet again some day. "

"That's what I feel; that we haven't met just to part. You'rewonderful. You're the most wonderful woman I've ever met. "

"And you--you've never told me anything about yourself, Osborn. "

"There's nothing to tell. "

He had Marie's last letter in his breast-pocket at that moment, and asRoselle stirred against him he heard the slight crackling of thepaper. It dropped like a trickle of cold water into his excitement anddesire. He took Roselle's arm lightly in his hand, and turned about. 

"I must take you to tea somewhere, " he said; "where shall we go?"

In a shaded tea room, full of screens, rose-lights and china tinkling, he sat looking at her. She _was_ wonderful; with the rather highset of her shoulders, her white, full neck, the depth of her hair andeyes, her short and tenderly kept hands, she was romance. You couldn'timagine such a woman sinking into the household drudge whatever hercircumstances; she stood for all that was easy and pleasant, scentedand soft, in woman. Osborn felt, as many a man has done and will doagain, all memories, all fidelity slipping from him, in the lure ofthe hour. Leaning forward, he said imperatively:

"I'll have to write every day. You'll answer me, won't you?"

"Of course I will, you exacting boy. "

In a very low voice he went on:

"I want to have you all to myself till to-morrow--till I've got toleave you. It would be heaven; but--"

Roselle Dates was of that talented community of stupid women whounderstand and manipulate life through their super-instinct of sexmerely; who know how to take all and give nothing; suckers of life andnever feeders. She looked at him and sighed and smiled, and shook herhead, and touching his hand, whispered:

"But that's impossible. It isn't often a woman makes a friend likeyou. Let it last a little longer, there's a dear boy. "

"I'm sorry, " said Osborn. "I suppose we're all beasts. "

She sighed again. "Every inch of life is snared, for women. In aprofession like mine you watch each step. My goodness, you do! Oryou'd fall into one of the traps. "

"Isn't it ever worth while falling in?"

She refused to answer. Becoming suddenly capricious with the capricethat is the armour of her kind, she wished to be taken home. After hehad left her, he walked the streets moodily for an hour before goingin himself. 

He had to pack for an early start next morning. In a bedroom where aprince might have slept, he threw himself into an easychair andbrooded. Roselle became more than ever desirable, as he imagined her, sitting in that shaded tea room, her fur coat opened and thrown backto show the fragile corsage underneath. She was romance; the fairytale, which he had read and mislaid, found again. Putting his hand up, he pulled out his wife's letter, and read it again cursorily beforecasting it into the wastepaper basket. 

How dull it was! What a lack of sparkle and spontaneity it showed!Something seemed to happen to women after marriage, making themprosaic; growing little nagging consciences in them; egging them on toa perpetual striving with things that were damned tiresome. And theletter that he would write back would be just as constrained; therewould be no joy in the writing of it as there would be writing theletters that would be sent to Roselle. 

 * * * * *

 "MY DEAR OSBORN" (Marie wrote), "Thank you for your letter. You are very good to write so regularly every mail. We are so glad to know what a successful trip you are having. We are all very well; and mother gave the children a tree for Christmas, and we hung your box of sweets and my scent on it. They couldn't think how you had managed to put them there! Thank you so much for the scent. I am having the dining-room carpet cleaned. The children send their love and so do I. --Your affectionate wife, "MARIE. "

 "P. S. --Baby has cut another tooth. "

"My God!" said Osborn resignedly, as he tore the letter across. "Marriage is a big mistake. To tie oneself up for life attwenty-seven. . . !"

 * * * * *

Osborn was in Chicago, prospering exceedingly, when Roselle's secondletter came. 

She was in the same city!

He hurried to her without a moment's loss. She was staying at aboarding-house full of noisy young business people, among whom she wasa sensation. She received Osborn in a great smudged parlour decoratedwith much gilt and lace curtains. 

"Aren't you surprised?"

"I was never so glad. "

"I expect you were. I expect you've been as glad ever so many times. "She looked at him shrewdly. "I didn't tell you in New York, " she said, letting her hand remain in his. They were alone in the horrible room. "But my contract was for the passage out and three months playing withSautree; not for the passage home. You see, I wanted to get out heresomehow and see what I could do. It does one good to have been in theStates. "

"And now--"

"I'm at a loose end. "

She saw the quick flush on his face and the light in his eyes, andplayfully put against his lips two fingers, which he kissed. 

"Only temporarily of course. I'm going round the hotels to-day--Ishall get plenty of entertaining to do. When I'm tired of this, Ishall move on. "

"Why not let our moving on coincide?"

It was what, vaguely, in her mind, Roselle meant to do. She wantedexperience; but to gain it comfortably would need a certain amount offinancing; and she thought she had tested the fairly satisfactorydepth of his pockets, although he had told her nothing. 

"I don't know, " she reserved. "What are your movements and dates?"

He told her eagerly. 

"I've always longed to tour Canada, " she cried. 

"Then tour it on your own. Only can't we be travelling companions?I'll see to your tickets and luggage and so on. "

"And I shan't have any hotel expenses, " she added, lighting acigarette; "I shall work them off and see a profit. "

Osborn's year now took on for him the aspect of the most magnificentadventure sated married man ever had. 

"Fancy us two trotting about the good old earth together!"

"Don't tell your friends, " she laughed. 

"Trust me. "

"But I don't. I don't trust any of you. "

"You are a tease. Roselle, it's so tophole to see you again; let mekiss you good morning. "

She took the cigarette from her mouth to return his kiss; she wasbright-eyed and hilarious. She knew that he was a fool as men were, unless they were brutes; and you had to make the fools whipping-boysfor the brutes. As he kissed her, she knew that she was going to usehim; to take all and give nothing. 

"You're the dearest boy. And how's the car?"

"She's first-rate. Want her this morning?"

"You might run me around in her; job-hunting. "

Into the spring sun they drove; she had the inevitable fur coat andthe hat he loved, and she looked beautiful. By the time he ranked thecar outside one of Chicago's best restaurants for lunch, she had whatshe called a pocketful of contracts, to sing at this restaurant andthat; to dance for her supper and half a guinea at a ruinous nightclub, for she could do everything a little. But her greatest asset washer beauty. 

CHAPTER XIX

ANOTHER WOOING

Osborn's letters told Marie very little of his doings; they almostconveyed the impression, though he would have been uneasy to know it, of careful epistles penned by a bad schoolboy. His letters fromChicago might have been replicas of those from New York; from Montrealhe began on the same old note, though, in answer to her request toteach a stay-at-home woman descriptive geography, he once launchedforth into an elaborate account of his rail journey on the CanadianPacific, from Montreal westwards. Marie was not disappointed in theletters; they were what she would have expected. But sometimes, as sheread their terse and uninteresting sentences, their stodgy bits ofinformation, she smiled to think how marriage changed a man. 

How dull it made him!

How irritating and constrained it made him! How prosaic! How itwalled-up passion, as one read how a nun who had loved too much waswalled-up, in the old fierce days, with bricks and mortar!

 "MY DEAR MARIE, " (or sometimes "Dear Wifie"), --

 "How are you all getting along? I'm in ---- now, as you will see by my changed address. Business has been fairly good. . . . It was rather a pretty journey here; I must send George a book about the wild flowers on the prairies. . . . I am glad to hear you are all so comfortable. Are you going earlier to Littlehampton this year, or shall you wait till the summer as usual? Of course, when I went with you, we had to go in the summer because my turn for holidays came then; but I should think the rooms would be cheaper earlier in the year. I am rather glad you are having the carpet cleaned. . . . 

 "With love to you and the children, "YOUR AFFECTIONATE HUSBAND. "

In the spring a sorrow came with a shock into Marie's even life. Grannie Amber died suddenly. In the evening she had played with thechildren at No. 30, and in the morning she was found in the littleold-fashioned flat on the other side of the Heath, sitting in hereasychair by a dead fire, with her bonnet and cloak on, just as shehad sat down to rest for awhile on her return. 

She left her daughter a good deal of old furniture which sold for afair sum to dealers; and an income of two hundred and twenty pounds ayear. 

For a while sorrow kept Marie much to the rut in which she had movedsince Osborn's departure; but the grief for a parent is so natural andinevitable a grief; it is not as the grief for a husband or a child;and when the first warm days of April came Marie took some verydefinite steps forward on that road where she had, last December, sether feet. It was Julia who roused her finally to the course. 

Julia came and said: "Do you know, my dear, you're years younger?You're your pretty self again. And what are you going to do now thatyou are such a rich young woman?"

It was a week later that the capable maid was installed in the flat. She slept in a tiny room which had hitherto been relegated to boxes, but which now was furnished with one or two left-over pieces from Mrs. Amber's sale, and the hall-porter, who realised that Mrs. Osborn Kerrhad inherited money, was pleased to care for the boxes. The servantbrought rest and charm into that flat; and George went half-daily to anear-by school, taking himself to and fro with the utmost manfulness. 

Marie paid at last those longed-for visits to the dentist. 

 * * * * *

Marie was having the first dinner-party for which she had not to cookherself, and the party consisted of Julia and Desmond Rokeby. 

Rokeby had leapt at the invitation flatteringly; but Julia had beeninscrutable in her demur, until begged in such terms as were hard torefuse. 

"You're the only two people I really know intimately, " Marie said; "ifyou refuse, you'll spoil it all. In fact I don't believe I can have aman to dinner alone without exciting Mr. And Mrs. Hall Porter. "

When she uttered this little vain thing, she laughed and looked in theglass and patted her hair. 

"I'll come, " Julia promised. 

As Marie Kerr came out of her bedroom and proceeded down the corridorto inspect the table arrangements, she was a pretty picture of allthat a well-dressed, happy, healthy young woman should be. She pausedby the door of the erstwhile dressing-room to look in on the two elderchildren, then entered the dining-room. Spotless napery and most ofthe wedding-present silver equipped the table, as it used to do in theearly days of her marriage. Between the candlesticks were clusters ofviolets. A bright wood fire burned upon the hearth, but thegolden-brown curtains were not yet drawn upon the evening. Thegolden-brown carpet, newly cleaned, was speckless again. Marie movedabout, improving on the table arrangements, and the hands whichtouched this or that into better design were little, slim and white. The finger nails had regained their tapering prettiness. And as shesmiled with pleasure, between her lips an unblemished row of teethshowed. She wore black, to her mother's memory, but her gown was thelast word in cut and contour; it opened in a long V to show her plumpwhite neck; underneath the filmy bodice a hint of mauve ribbonsgleamed. In her ears slender earrings twinkled. They were amethyst, and had been her mother's. She had put them on for the first time thatevening as she dressed, because, regarding herself earnestly in theglass, there had risen up over her shoulder, for no reason whatever, the sleek pale face of the manicure girl, who wore emeralds in herears. And when she had clipped them on she was thrilled; they gave hera distinctive, a resolute charm. She could smile at herself again inthat glass, at the colour and light and verve which had come back toher. The face pictured there had all the roundness, the softness andpinkiness of the face of the bride Marie, who had waked and lookedtherein on wonderful mornings, but it held more than the face of Mariethe bride. It was strong; it had firmness and judgment and humour. Itwas no fool of a face. Yet, as the wisest and strongest of women candelight in vanities, so Marie delighted in the earrings which she woreto-night, as an inspiration, for the first time. 

From her dining-room Marie went to the sitting-room, rosy in the lightof another wood fire. Every day now she used her sitting-room. Tea wasbrought to her there, placed at her elbow as she sat in a cosy chairbefore the fire, and she drank it at leisure--while the maid gave thechildren their meal in the dining-room. In that chair by the fire, allthe spring, Marie had read the new books, for she could afford to paya library subscription. In that chair, as she rested, the lines hadsmoothed from her face, her neck had grown plump again, and thestories of modern thought, of modern love and its ways, had stimulatedher brain once more to thoughts of its own. She loved the sitting-roombetter than she had loved it even when it was first furnished; it wasnow peculiarly her own. When she thought of Osborn's return, as shedid now and then with a curious mixture of feelings, she knew, half-guiltily, that somehow she would grudge him a share in thosepleasant evenings by the fire. 

Marie sat down to wait for Julia and Desmond, and, taking up herhalf-finished novel, put her silk-stockinged feet on the fender, leaned back, and opened the book at the place where she had left thestory. It was a love story, and as she read she thought: "How well Iknow this phase! and that phase!. . . But we will just see what happensafter they're married. " Her thought was not bitter, only interestedand curious, because her own hurt was over, and a wisdom, acontentment, had come. 

Julia and Desmond arrived together, much against Julia's will; andthey all sat down in the pretty pale room, while the maid drew thecurtains upon the gathering dusk and switched on the light. 

They sat and talked of trivial things, waiting for the serving ofdinner to be announced; and Marie remembered how often, in the pastyears, she had longed to sit there comfortably, thus till awell-trained servant should open the door noiselessly and say: "Dinneris served, ma'am. "

Now it happened every night. 

They went in to a well-ordered dinner; there was a pleasant peace andharmony in the flat; and as Rokeby looked at Marie's face, which hadwon back all its old prettiness, as well as attaining the strength ofthe woman who has suffered, he did not marvel, but he was a littlesad. And he wondered slightly just what was going to happen to Osbornwhen he came home. But Julia, as she looked at Marie, was triumphant;she did not wonder what was going to happen to Osborn; she thought sheknew. And all dinner she tried to hurl tiny defiances into Rokeby'steeth, asking with sparkling malice:

"Isn't Marie looking her own self again? Isn't it lovely to see her?Doesn't grass-widowhood suit her? Isn't it a screaming success?"

Rokeby knew what Julia meant, but his patience was invincible. 

There was a piano in the flat now; it had been Grannie Amber's, andwas old, but still it fulfilled its purpose of a musical instrument. It stood in the sitting-room, across one of the corners by the fire, and after dinner Marie played and Julia sang; and when she refused tosing more, it was Desmond's turn. He looked through Marie's pile ofmusic, selected a song, and sat down to play his own accompanimentwith a light and beautiful touch which came as a surprise to thelistening women, who knew nothing of his drawing-room talents. He wentfrom song to song, and all at once Marie, transferring her gaze fromcontemplative dreams, saw Julia's face. Julia leaned forward with herelbows on her knees, her chin in her palms, looking at the man at thepiano, and in her eyes ran the old tale, and her red lips smiled andher breast heaved. But she became conscious of Marie's look, andsitting up sharply, drew, as it were, a blind down over the light. 

"Julia?" Marie said to herself, all wonder, _"Julia!"_

She looked at Rokeby's creaseless back, at his fingers wandering overthe keys, and for the first time she noticed how sensitive, howcaressing the fingers were. Yet that two people in her intimate circlecould contemplate that through which she herself had passed painfully, as through ordeal by fire. . . . 

It made her very kind to them both, though a small stir of queerjealousy was in her. Before hell they would know heaven. Love andmarriage began with the celestial tour. . . . 

When they came out into the hall presently, to put on their outdoorwraps, she beckoned them to the door of the children's room. The babyhad joined the two elder ones, and three small cots now stood in arow, closely packed. A night-light gave enough glimmer to see the warmfaces lying peacefully on the three pillows. The women crept in andlooked down upon a scene which will always make women's hearts sing, or ache; and Rokeby followed. To his lover's mind, never had JuliaWinter appeared so adorable as when she bent low over the fat baby, and murmured to it the small feckless loving things that all womenalways have murmured to all the babies in the world. She touched itsoutflung hand delicately with a finger, and lingered there, filledwith woman's world-old want. And out of the twilight Marie sent awhisper which reached them both. 

"Of course, you're never going to marry, either of you. But if youever want to, and you're hanging back, wondering, just don't wonder. Remember that the children are worth--everything. "

"Thank you, " Rokeby whispered fervently in her ear. 

Julia said nothing, but straightened herself and passed out. 

Rokeby was after her in a second to hold her coat. The way in whichshe turned her back on him so that he might lift it on was peculiarlyungracious. 

Marie was in the background, wanting a lover again. When they had goneshe drew back the curtains, threw up the windows, and leaned out intothe sweet, chill spring night. She drank it and loved it, and all herbeing cried out for love. 

But she did not want love grown old, which came in and put on itsslippers, and grumped: "Can't those kids keep quiet?" if it heard thevoice of the children of love, and which hid itself behind a hedge ofdaily paper, or flung out again from home, in the ill-temperedsenility of its second childhood. 

She wanted love new-grown; with a bloom upon it, fresh and young; loveat its beginning, before it was ripe and over-ripe, and spoiling andfalling from its tree; such a love as she imagined Julia and Desmondeven then to be driving towards. 

In a taxicab--for where else in all London could he be alone withher?--Rokeby was taking Julia home. She allowed it in spite ofherself; yet was angry with them both for the circumstance whichbrought them together close, which enclosed them in a privacy whichmade her remember, with a vividness which disturbed her, thesensations of that first and only kiss. He was asking her again:

"Haven't you changed your mind, Julia? Can't you relent?"

"You know what I think about marrying. "

"I thought I did. But to-night when I looked at you looking at thosekids, I knew differently. You want to be married and have children ofyour own. I don't know as much about me--don't know, " he said in aslight break of despair, "that I come into the picture much. "

It was dark enough to hide her flush. 

"When I ask 'Can't you relent'?" said Rokeby, "I ought to say instead'Can't you confess?' That's what you don't want to do. "

"If--" she began. 

"Yes, dear. If?"

"If I married you--"

She paused a long while and he declared passionately: "You're afraidto risk marriage and yet you want to. You don't know what to do. Youlike being loved; you pretend you don't, but you do. You're feelinghow sweet it all is. But you will not own it even to yourself. "

And she answered: "I am afraid. "

"I know you are, " said Rokeby; "and so am I. Haven't you thought ofthat?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, look around and see the muddle and mess most people make of thecontract. "

"That's what I mean. "

"So do I. Why shouldn't I be afraid as much as you are? If we gotmarried and muddled and messed things up, wouldn't it hurt me as muchas you?"

"Not according to what I've seen. Most men--"

"I'm not most men. I'm just me. You're you. We're different. Besides, we've seen and thought and argued it out to ourselves as well astogether. Couldn't you risk it?"

"You know what I want; complete freedom. "

"Well, you should have it. And you know what I want?"

"Yes?"

"Complete freedom, too. "

"Oh?" she said uncertainly, with a jealous note in her voice. 

He laughed. "Couldn't I have it, then? Well, to tell you a secret, youcouldn't either. But another secret is that, probably, neither of uswould really want it. "

"That's true. It's dreadful the way married people learn to cling toeach other. "

"Well, what else would you cling to?"

"I don't know. "

"Well; won't you risk it?"

"I think, perhaps, I dare if you dare. "

The biggest moment of Rokeby's life was when he took her, for thesecond time, into his arms, and felt her lips respond to his. She shuther eyes and saw again the vision of the three cots side by side in adim room; and his eyes, on her face, saw the mother-ecstasy there. "You wonder!" he exclaimed. 

"Why?"

"To give me such a fright when all the while you've been feelingthis!"

It was a long drive from Hampstead, and all the time she was withinhis arms, and all the time he told her of all they would be to eachother; of how he loved her. And at last she stood alone in her flat, with her bedroom lights switched on, looking at a radiant creature inthe glass, and crying within herself:

"Is this really Julia Winter?"

Already the homelike quality of her home had vanished; the dearpossession of her things had become less dear. She could think ofanother home, a bigger one, and a hearthplace with her husband's faceopposite her own. She sat down by the dressing-table, and laid herhands idly in her lap, and thought all the rosy things that women inlove do think. 

She lunched the next day with Desmond as a matter of course. He calledfor her at her office, and drove her away possessively. There was nomore solitude for her, no more proud loneliness, no more boastfulindependence. Already she clung and already she enjoyed it. When, overthe table, he asked: "Isn't it nice being engaged?" she nodded, smiling, and answered: "I'm wondering why I haven't done it before. "

CHAPTER XX

SEPARATION

In November Marie had the letter which announced Osborn's imminentreturn. 

". . . In another week, " he wrote, "I shall be with you all again. Itwill be good to see you. Of course, this has been rather a rag, and Ithink I shall hold down the job for ever and evermore; but a year is along time, isn't it? I look forward to coming home. I shall have a lotto tell you, but I expect I shall want to hear your news first, andhow George has got on at school, and so on. "

The letter had an unwonted postscript: "I wonder if you've missed me, old girl. "

It was waiting for Marie on a grey afternoon when she returned from alecture, for which, a year ago, she would have needed a dictionary, but which now entered her brain glibly and was at home there. All thatafternoon she had been listening to an exotic discourse on "Woman andher Current Philosophy"; and now--here was Osborn's letter, suggestingcalmly, proprietorially almost, his re-entry into her life. Was itpossible that he had been away for a whole year? Or possible that hehad been away for only a year? Rapid as the stride of Time had been, he was already a stranger, someone dimly perceived, arriving fromanother life, and hardly making his presence felt. 

She stood reading the letter attentively, noting its points andphrases with even detachment; its arrival arrested her thoughts, although she had known it must come soon. Its sender was already onhis way to her, expecting the eager welcome of home; and home hadnothing but stereotyped compliments to offer. Who was he, anyway?

Just the man who had made the domestic laws in No. 30, had made themdisagreeably and could make them no longer, whose power was broken. The keeper of the purse; the winder of the clocks of life; the hostileelement in a peaceful day; the shade of a dead lover long sincetrampled under the domestic battle-ground. 

It was almost curious that he had ever existed. 

She came for the second time to the postscript and smiled vaguely andfaintly. He wondered if she had missed him. 

Yes. She had certainly missed him. 

As Marie Kerr stood by the fire in her sitting-room with Osborn'sletter in her hand, she awoke fully, as from a dream, to theunderstanding of what was about to befall her. 

She was once more, after this year of miraculous growth and power andrecovery, to take unto herself her husband. 

The door opened and the maid came in quietly, a teacloth over her arm, the tray in her hand. She arranged all to please the taste of themistress who stood watching as if she watched something unusual. 

For a whole year, in that flat, she had been the person whose will wasgovernment, who had to be pleased and obeyed. She had made the laws, kept the purse, and set the clock. 

It had been a wonderful year. 

She laid aside her furs, sat down and poured out her tea. Presentlyshe heard George come in--he now went to school for the whole, insteadof the half day--and the happy clatter of the children in thedining-room. There was no one to cry testily: "For God's sake keepthose children quiet!" as if the children were aliens--crimes of themother. 

When she had finished her tea, and had heard the maid come out of thedining-room, she went in, to romp with her children. It was an hourshe loved and for which she now had zest; she could enjoy it to thefull. They played Blind Man's Buff, in which even the baby joinedstaggeringly, and Hunt the Slipper--the baby's little one, which shewanted to keep whenever it was smuggled under the edge of her littleflannel petticoat; and for the last ten minutes Marie went back to thesitting-room to tinkle on the piano, while the maid was requisitionedonce more to make a fourth to play Musical Chairs. Then the childrencame into the sitting-room, hand in hand, and stood by the piano andsang the lullaby their mother had taught them. She joined her voice totheirs with all its old strength and sweetness. And she heard theirprayers and tucked them up in their beds. 

Then she went into the room which for a year had been hers and, whileshe changed into her soft black frock, the realisation came that shewas again to share it. Her lips curled. 

"I won't!" she said to herself. 

Why couldn't they go on for ever in this flat as they were now, sufficient unto themselves, she and the children?

She returned to her book by the fire. And while she read on deeperinto the love-story, absorbed and credulous in spite of herself, thefront door bell rang. 

Julia and Desmond Rokeby came in with a great air of mystery andjubilation. They walked with the rich expectancy of people treadinggolden streets, and though they came up to Marie, captured andembraced her, laughed, and began relevant explanations both together, their eyes looked through her, away and beyond her, and she had asense of being right outside their scheme for ever and evermore. 

Loneliness assailed her rather bleakly as she stood with a smilingmouth, gazing from one to the other and trying to gather the gist oftheir news. 

"We know you'll be awfully surprised, " Julia cried, treating her tosqueezes of nervous rapture, "but--"

"Now, darling, " said Rokeby, "let me. You see, Marie, we've gone anddone for ourselves. May we sit down with you just a moment while Itell you? I knew that Julia--"

"He was so stupid about it, " said Julia, glowing. 

"Don't cut in and spoil the story, dearest, " he urged. "I knew she'dnever make up her mind really to get married, you know, Marie, so thisafternoon I met her coming out of the office, drove her to a churchwhere all arrangements had been made, took one of those handy permitsout of my pocket--a special licence, you know--and--"

"You're married, " said Marie Kerr in rather a dull way whichdisappointed them both. 

"We are. "

"After all, Marie, " said Julia breathlessly, "don't you think it's thenicest way; without any fuss and premeditation, and bridesmaids, andcake and things? Just our two selves. "

"It was splendid, " said Rokeby. "I'm the first man I know who everreally enjoyed his wedding. "

Marie sat between them and held a hand of each; after a while sheanswered:

"I do congratulate you both; it's all so exciting and romantic. Oh! Ido hope you'll always be very happy. "

"Thank you, dear, " Julia beamed. 

"We know we shall always be very happy, " said Rokeby. 

"And now?" Marie asked with an effort. 

"We're going honeymooning, " said the bridegroom. 

Again she sat silent, keeping the smile upon her lips. 

"Where are you going?" she asked by and by. "We went to Bournemouth. We had such a delightful time. . . "

"Our plans are uncertain, " said Rokeby. 

"That means you are going to hide. "

"For a while we are; no letters; no telegrams; no intrusions of anykind. Just us. See how marriage takes a hardened bachelor!"

"And a hardened spinster!" Julia chimed. 

"I do hope, " Marie repeated, "that you'll be very happy. When will youcome back?"

"Early next month, " said Julia. 

"Perhaps, " Rokeby qualified. 

"And the first thing we do, " said Julia affectionately, "will be tocome and see how our Marie is, left all alone without us. "

"Don't!" Marie begged. "You're making me gulpy. For two pins I'd cry. You two--you've just been everything to me this year, after thechildren. You don't know how lonely you're making me feel. "

"But soon Osborn--"

"Osborn's coming home next week. "

"Oh, great!" Rokeby cried; and Mrs. Rokeby added: "I _am_ glad. Now you won't be lonely any more. "

"I don't know, " Marie said quietly. 

She took Julia's bare left hand from her muff and looked at the ringsand stroked it. 

"I love a new wedding ring, " she said. 

"Our train, darling, " Rokeby reminded his wife. 

"We must fly, " said Julia, rising. "Our taxi's outside, with all theclothes I've had time to pack, upon it. Desmond had packed inanticipation, the wretch! And we've only got an hour--but we just hadto come in and tell you before we went. "

"I hope you and Osborn will have another honeymoon like ours is goingto be, " Rokeby cried as they hurried through the hall. 

She shook her head, vaguely smiling, but her lips would frame nothing. She was glad to shut the door upon their happiness. It seemed as ifeverything young and fierce in her were pulling at her heart. How shewanted it again, that amazing rapture and discovery! As she sat downagain by her fire in the quiet flat, she would have bartered half theremaining years of her life for just that first year over again. 

She went across to the window, pulled aside a curtain, and beheld rowsand darts of lights like stars; street lights and house lightsbeckoned to her; she opened the window slightly and the distant soundof traffic, the drums of London rolling, excited and affrayed her. 

She felt too young for the sedateness into which her life wassettling. 

Restless as she was, she had trained herself too well in the ruthlesshabits of method and industry not to begin automatically to set all inorder against the coming of the master of the home. Feeling the needof doing rather than of thinking, she went to the bureau, and pickedher account-books from their pigeonholes. Accurate and businesslike, they should be presented. They were ruled with neat margins, thecolumns headed precisely; each quarter of the year showing afavourable balance in hand. There was no doubt but that she was acreditable housekeeper. She opened them one by one memorising with acertain pleasure their tributes to her capacity. One big item had beenwiped off altogether last spring, after her mother's death: the restof the furniture instalments, which, on the extended system for whichOsborn had been obliged to arrange after George's birth, would havedragged on for two years more. Grannie Amber's sale had more than paidfor all. 

"He can't say I haven't been careful, " she thought. Besides, she wasnow a woman with an income of her own; with two hundred and twentypounds a year in her pocket, the right to which no man could question. If he demurred at the maid, and at George's school bills, she couldpoint to her ability to pay. 

She knew how greatly she had changed during their separation; to thechange that might have been wrought in Osborn she gave little, thought, not caring much. She supposed that he would come home much ashe left it, refreshed doubtless, better-tempered, and full of hisholiday, to the stories of which she would give a dutifully interestedhearing. But that he could ever rouse again in her the passion andpain which had prostrated her on the night when she knew he was toleave her was ironically impossible. As she sat over heraccount-books, her memory cast back to that evening, how she hadstood, in silent agony, beside the table, sorting over his stock ofclothes; how feverishly and blindly she had sewed, trying to hide fromhim all that to-morrow meant to her; how, when he had gone to bed, shehad kneeled by his chair and sobbed, and prayed that no other womanshould ever wean him from her. . . . 

What an extraordinary exhibition! What weakness of temper and nerve!

She knew it was more. It had been the terribleness of love. 

"And now?" she mused. 

It made her smile a little, lazily and serenely. 

But now and again she sighed with a sharp envy, thinking of Julia andDesmond. 

She waked often in the solitude of the night, imaging the bride andbridegroom on the track of rapture, following the unwaning star. 

In the morning there was a cablegram for her, reading: "Home onThursday. --OSBORN. "

To-day was Monday. She stood with tight lips for a moment wonderingjust how to set this scene of reunion; the flat was not large, comprising as it did the tiny slip of a room in which the maid slept, the children's room, her own, and the two sitting-rooms and kitchen. All the day she arranged and rearranged the accommodation in her head. 

She was not only reluctant for Osborn, but almost shy of him; he hadleft her thoughts so that it seemed impossible that he had ever hadthe right to intrude, at all hours, on her privacy; impossible that itshould ever be so again. After all, there were many husbands and wiveswho went their own way, led their own lives, and the outside worldnever knew. To such a confraternity would she and Osborn now belong, living under one roof, but separated, separated not only by walls, butwill. 

For she did not want him any more; she could not contemplate hisassumption of the husbandly role. It sounded strange as she uttered italoud to herself, but there it was. 

"I do not want him any more. "

She thought: "Had he never gone away, had we gone on living as welived then, year in, year out, this would never have happened. Peopledon't get out of a deep rut like that unless they're helped out. Butnow I've had a year to get my looks back; to sit down and think, and Iknow things that I should never have guessed before. "

After she had taken the baby for her morning airing on the Heath, she left the two younger children with the maid, and went into townto lunch. She chose again the Royal Red, but not the table behindthe pillar from which she had peered, glad of its shelter for hershabbiness, a year ago. She took a table at the side of the room whereshe could see and be seen, and she looked at the other women withoutenvy or hatred, with no more than a level sense of rivalry which wasalmost pleasant. If she had not known how well she looked, the glancesof men would have told her. She lingered long over her coffee, enjoyingher opportunity and her freedom, and telling herself--resolved as shewas that it should not be so--"Well, it's probably my last time likethis. "

She was in Regent Street after lunch, looking into a blouse shop, when she saw close at hand the Beauty Parlour sign which brought toher memory at once the sleek pale girl with the emerald earrings. Something made her curious to see the girl again, and she went in, tofind her still there, the emeralds still in her beautiful close ears, but sharper set, a year wearier. 

She uttered charming things of madame's white hands. And, surely, shehad never had the pleasure of seeing madame there before?

Madame replied: "No; you have never seen me here before. "

She reflected: "It's very true, that. No one had ever seen me, thisme, a year ago. "

Just as she had felt no hate for the women in the Royal Red, so hersense of hostility to the girl bending over her hand had vanished. Shewas a friendly rival, not to be feared. And she was not so peerless, after all; there were flaws under the powder with which she coated herpale skin. 

"I have never seen prettier nails, madame, " said the manicurist, asshe smeared on cream. 

After she left the Beauty Parlour Marie had nowhere to go. There wasno Rokeby to give her tea in his comfortable office while he offeredher business advice; he had been very good with his advice over thequestion of Marie's inheritance. Neither was there a Julia to ring upand invite to tea at one of the numberless cosy teashops of the WestEnd. Marie turned in, at three o'clock, to a matinée and bought anupper circle seat, a few minutes late for the rise of the curtain onthe first act of an ultra-modern play. 

The play was all about marriage. It dissected marriage into a thousandpieces, and held every piece which was not turned into tragedy up toridicule. It fostered all the nonsense which fretted in idle women'shearts, and touched many sore spots in others; and made men smilecynically as if saying, "That's got it to the life. " This play keptMarie Kerr enchained; it set her wondering why the Marriage Servicehad ever been written and consecrated; it blew to and fro the winds ofthe storm in her soul until a tempest rocked her mind; she drew ablack comparison between the tragedy of the hero and heroine, and thesituation between Osborn and herself. But at last, when the playwrighthad ridiculed and denounced what he called the oldest and tiredestconvention in the world for long enough, the play seemed to turn on apivot, and the pivot was the cradle. The playwright gave the playgoersthe happy ending for which the world craves and sent them homerelieved. 

He sent Marie Kerr home relieved, too; but the day had not changed hermind. She was fixed and, she felt, irrevocably. Over her solitarydinner she thought of the play; and she thought of the fight to befought in her own home, and she slept upon it, to awake unmoved in themorning. 

She did not want Osborn. 

CHAPTER XXI

HOME-COMING

Osborn Kerr was coming home with the happy sense of expectancy whichis common to the wanderer. He had prepared for departure with a highheart and a holiday feeling running through everything, likechampagne, but he packed for his return with a very warm pleasure inlooking forward to the welcome waiting for him, right across all thatspace, in the flat an which he had established home. 

Looking back as well as forward, only the pleasant and sweet things ofhis marriage remained impressed on his mind. The cosiness of the homeand not the worry of paying for it instalment by instalment; the gooddinners Marie cooked, not the grudge of giving out that housekeepingallowance which paid for them; the prettiness and sunniness of hiswife rather than the faded looks and uncertain temper of the last fewyears; the three fine kids he'd got, not the nuisance and noise andexpense which he had so often declared them. 

The rosy cloud of time and distance had rolled between Osborn and allthat was his at No. 30 Welham Mansions. Before his year of adventurewas up he found himself thinking of them sentimentally; he found thatthey were embedded pretty deep in his heart. They were real; otherthings were--

Looking about for a definition, he stigmatised other things: "They'retrash. "

He added therefore a postscript to his letter to his wife, an additionwritten in a sudden thrust of pathos, a want of her almost like theold want:

"I wonder if you've missed me, old girl. "

In the trash he felt, though he had not given the idea the form of athought, that Roselle Dates was included. She had never bored, beingtoo clever in her stupid, instinctive way for that; but sometimes shehad sickened him. She had wanted so much. She seemed always wantingsomething. At first her pallid and raven beauty and her cleversilliness had been sheer stimulation, but when you grew used toher. . . . 

She had nothing behind. And she was mean with the sex meanness, thecold prudence of the sex-trafficker. She would never have given; shewould only have sold, and that at a price far beyond Osborn Kerr'spocket-book even at its recent splendour. But she did not want to selleither; she wanted to take and take, to squeeze and squeeze. Once--that was in San Francisco, where she had beaten together aconcert party and shone as its brightest star--when he had beendisappointed of a big deal and had come to her with the story. . . . 

_She had refused to listen_. 

She had said: "Look here, boy! What do you mean by asking me out tolunch and moping? I don't want to hear your troubles. There are plentyof people here who'll amuse me without pulling long faces overdropping a little cash. "

She looked at him very coldly. In that moment he had suddenly thoughtof another woman, a young bride, who, with tears of consternation andsympathy in her eyes, had brought out an account-book and pencil andsaid: "I'll get the gas out of the thirty shillings, too. "

That was the kind of reception a man expected for his troubles. Butafter Roselle had let him pay for their expensive lunch, she hadneeded other things--perfume and candy. And she "borrowed" the rent ofher rooms from him for several weeks. 

She went back to London two months ahead of him, having written forand secured a moderately good engagement. 

During the two months he missed her a little in the Runaway, where herpresence had secured for him an extra mark of distinction; but he hadrather the feeling of a man surfeited. He put it to himself in modernslang: "I was fed up, " he said. "She only wanted me to get the ticketsand look after her luggage, and turn up when I was wanted, and be akind of unpaid courier, while she travelled about getting experiencesand hunting for bigger fools than me. I'm about fed up. "

Osborn was to stop in Paris for a week on his way back; it was a weekto which he had looked forward throughout the year. Paris and expensespractically unlimited! How gay it sounded! What visions it conjuredup! But the week was a failure as far as pleasure went, thoughbusiness was brisk. For Osborn over all the pleasures of Paris therewas a frost. It was restless and light and bright, and all this livingin hotels and cafes wasn't worth while. He wanted at last, very badly, to be at home again. 

He half thought of wiring to Marie to join him. How surprised anddelighted and excited she'd be! But how would she arrange about thekids? She couldn't come, of course. 

Besides, there was an inimitable pleasure in picturing oneselfentering the flat and finding her there just the same as ever. 

Home was essentially the place to look for one's wife. 

Osborn did not know Paris with any intimacy. A week-end had been hislimit hitherto. So he went to the Bon Marché to look for a gift forMarie, not knowing where else to look, and he bought her any triflethat he could imagine--Roselle's teaching was useful here, --littlechiffon collars, and a glittering hair-band ornament that he thoughtlooked very French, and handkerchiefs, and a pair of silk stockings, and garters with great big fluffy pompoms on them. She had had to berather a mouse during her married life, after the trousseau was wornout and since her children came, anyway. How pleased she would be tohave these pretty things!

The evening he arrived, after dinner, they would sit down by the fireand he would tell her all his business news--how well he'd done; allabout his hopes and prospects, and he would give her some of hisfirm's letters to him to read. He would be sure of her sympathy andappreciation. 

He had made more than a thousand pounds in commissions that year, andit was waiting for him, in a lump. He drew a long breath at thethought of it. 

A thousand pounds! And there would be more to follow, for poor Woodallhad died, and he was holding down the job. 

He crossed to Dover on a still, cold day; it was an excellent crossingfor the time of year. He stood on deck, smoking, watching the whitecliffs approach, looking back over the last year and forward to thosethat lay before him. The last year--how mad and jolly it had been forthe greater part! It had been a great piece of folly and a great pieceof fun, travelling about with a lovely woman like Roselle Dates; itwas a situation which half the men he knew would have envied him. Coming as it did after a humdrum period of domesticity, where a mancould not afford either folly or fun, the danger signals had beenflying all the time. 

He could recall fifty occasions on which he could, or would, gladlyhave lost his head; but now, retrospecting, he was inclined to givehimself the credit rather than Roselle, that their relations had beenso innocuous. And at the moment, although every second the boatbrought him nearer to her, he felt strangely indifferent as to whetherthey met again or not. He supposed that he might, perhaps, go to seeher in this new play, and perhaps take her out to supper. 

At four o'clock in the afternoon he was home. 

He ran up the grey stone stairs like a boy and attained that dear olddoor, the portal of home. Having mislaid his latchkey, he had listenedeagerly, anticipating the sound of Marie's feet flying down the hall. Feet came with a sort of drilled haste, but no eagerness. 

A smart maid-servant of superior type opened his door to him. 

He stepped past her, staring somewhat, and the hall porter followedinto the hall with the luggage. The sitting-room door opened and Mariecame out. 

As she came towards her husband she motioned the hall porter to putthe bags in the dressing-room. There was about her an assurance andauthority, very quiet, but undeniable. 

"Here you are, Osborn, " she said. 

"Hallo, dear!" he answered, rather stammeringly. "How are you? How arethe--"

The maid took from him the overcoat which he was shedding, and hiswife retreated into the sitting-room, he following. 

When the door was shut, she turned, lifted her face, and murmured:"How are you, Osborn?"

He kissed her and, loth to relinquish her, kept his arm about herwaist; she was unresponsive, but he did not notice that; they wenttogether to the chesterfield drawn up before the fire and sat down. She took a corner, turning herself to face him a little, so that hehad to withdraw his arm from her, and she pushed a billowing cushionwhich he did not remember into a comfortable position for her back. 

She spoke very kindly and sympathetically, but it was with thekindness and sympathy which someone who was a stranger might show. "How well you look! I'm longing to hear all about your doings; yourletters did not say very much. I should have met you at Victoria, onlythere's always a crush, and it's easy to miss people, so I thought I'dstay here. "

"I didn't suppose you could leave the children to meet me. "

"Oh, I can leave them quite well with Ann. "

One of those silences which fall between people who have beenestranged fell between them, during which he looked from her to theroom, and all about him, and back to her, while she regarded him withthat disinterested kindness. 

"How nice everything looks!" he said, breaking the silence in a voicewhich sounded crude to himself. "What a lot of flowers you have, andall these cushions! I don't remember things, as a woman would do, butsurely there's something new. "

"Only the cushions. I stuffed a lot with one of mother's feather beds. She left me everything, you know. "

"Yes. You didn't say much about it. "

"No. The flowers _are_ nice, aren't they? I love flowers. "

"So you do, " he exclaimed suddenly. "I wish I'd brought you some;there are such lovely ones at Victoria. "

His wife smiled. 

"But I've brought you something I hope you'll like as well. "

"Have you, you dear kind person?"

He took her hand and drew nearer. "Marie, darling, it's awf'ly good tosee you again. This last week in Paris seemed such waste of time, withyou so near. "

She looked at him with her eyes widening, a trick he found vivid inhis memory. A little more colour rose into her cheeks. 

"Don't you want to see the children?" she asked, "or do you want teafirst?"

"I have an idea I want you. But--where are they?"

"In the dining-room. George will be back from school directly. "

"School?"

"Yes, school. "

"Things have been happening!" he exclaimed, getting up. He pulledcaressingly at the hand he held. "You're coming, too?"

"Go in and see them by yourself. See if they remember you. Dispensewith my introductions. "

She laughed, pulling her hand from his, and he moved away. At the doorhe looked back, puzzled. An element which he was unprepared for, couldnot understand, seemed with them in the room. She leaned back amongthe fat cushions, pretty and leisured as he had been used to seeingher before their marriage, only now she had something else about herwhich he could not define. She was not looking at him, but down at herhands lying in her lap, and the curling sweep of her eyelashes, thebend of her head, the white nape of her neck, the colour and contourof her cheek--all these he found newly adorable. He almost came back, with a rush of tenderness, longing for a real embrace, but something, that element which he only sensed, restrained him. 

He went into the dining-room, where a four-year-old girl nursed a dolland played with a robust baby by turns. They were merry, healthychildren, and their chubby prettiness swelled his heart with pride. These were his; he had fathered them. And just through thatpartitioning wall was a woman who was all his, too; one of theprettiest of women, and his wife. 

"Hallo, kids!" he smiled at them from the door-way, "here's Daddy comeback. Come and see if you remember him. What a great girl Minna'sgrown, and is that the baby Dadda left behind him?"

He picked up the baby and danced and dandled her, but thefour-year-old Minna came more sagely, more slowly; she had to be wonover by bribe and strategy, and her aloofness made him a trifle sore. In a moment or two he heard the maid go down the corridor and let in aboisterous boy, who ran into the dining-room swinging a satchel ofbooks and pulled up short at seeing the stranger among them. 

But his memory, older and longer than Minna's, served him. 

"Daddy!" said George, shy and very nervous. 

Osborn wondered why this boy was nervous of him. Forgetting hisprevious sharpness and irritation with the children, he now suddenlywanted George's confidence. 

"Daddy's back!" he said, "with lots of stories to tell you about greatbig ships and trains and wonderful birds which _you_ never saw. "

"How splendid!" said the boy, still very shy. He had a guilty feelingabout his boisterous entry. 

"I was afraid you would be cross with me for making a noise when Icame in, " he explained. 

"Like you used to be, " Minna added. 

"I'm not cross, old son, " Osborn said slowly. 

"We're going to have tea now, Daddy, " Minna continued, as the maidentered with a cloth and a tray. 

Osborn stayed talking to the children while the tea things were setupon the table. He supposed that they would all have tea together inthe way which he had once so heartily deplored, and which at thismoment seemed so dear and homely, until he saw the maid standingrespectfully behind her chair waiting for his departure. 

He spoke genially, but ill at ease. 

"You give them their tea, do you?"

"Yes, sir, " she answered, "and I have taken tea into thesitting-room. "

The baby was now sitting in a high chair, bland and fat and greedy, abib about her neck. George and Minna, after a propitiatory smile athim, had climbed into their places. 

"You don't mind if we begin, Daddy, do you?" George asked. 

"Go on, old son, " said Osborn hastily. 

There was no more use there for the father who had been cross, so hereturned to his wife. 

She was still sitting in the corner of the chesterfield, but she hadpicked up some knitting, with which her hands were busy. As he enteredshe looked up and gave him a contemplative regard such as he had givenher as he went out, only that it was colder, more detached. She sawhim big and splendid, handsome and virile, and the eagerness in hiseyes fell into her heart like a cold weight. Her hands became cold andtrembled. 

She did not want him. 

Beside her the tea table was drawn up. Its equipment seemed to himvery dainty. It was a picture he liked, this pretty woman by the fire, with the environment suited to her charms. 

Through the wall came faintly the jolly sound of their children'svoices. 

He hurried forward, sat down close to her, and laid a hand over herswhich held the knitting. 

"What's that?" he asked. 

"George's winter stockings; they're to have turn-down tops likegrown-up ones. "

He took the knitting and pretended to examine the pattern, though hewas not thinking of anything save her. 

The year's parting had been a miracle. Love had slyly redecorated hishouse throughout. 

"Jolly nice, " he commented on the stockings, "but, please, give me mytea now. "

He smiled at her a lazy, autocratic smile. All this flat and thepeople in it were his, and he would not have changed it for a throne. He thought again, though in a more mature fashion, much as he used todo in the first married year, how good it was to come in and shut yourown door upon a snubbed world. 

She answered the smile by one faint and chilly and reposeful. Leaningforward she began to busy herself with the tea things. The sugar tongspoised: "Let's see, " she cogitated, "it _was_ two lumps, wasn'tit?"

He assented, surprised. "Time I came home, " he said, affecting togrumble lightly. 

"What do you think of the children?" she asked. "I suppose you findthem grown? Did they remember you?"

"Yes, of course. I should think they did!"

"Muffin, Osborn?"

"Thank you, darling. I say, " he smiled with gratification, "you lookas though you'd all done yourselves pretty well while I've been away. This is cosy. "

He indicated the tea table. 

"Of course, after mother's death--"

"I was awf'ly sorry, Marie. I'm afraid I wrote rather a brief letterabout it; life was rather a rush, you know. "

"It didn't matter. I was going to say, that after her death, I foundmyself quite well off, comparatively. "

"You didn't tell me much. "

"No. Well, you didn't ask much. Surely, I answered all your questions?"

He remembered uncomfortably the many months of his abstraction withRoselle; she had occupied his thoughts for a while almost to theexclusion of everything else. 

"I expect you did, dearest. "

"However, I'm going into accounts with you presently, and then you'llknow everything. "

"Overspent yourself?" he smiled complacently, with the knowledge ofthat thousand pounds backing him. "Want money to go on with?"

She shook her head. 

"I don't want anything, thanks. "

The thought was to her like a bulwark; it was a thought whichthousands of wives would have loved to possess. It somehow completedher sense of detachment from him. She puzzled him. 

"How long have you had a maid?" he asked. "I must say I was awf'lysurprised when what's--her--name--Ann--opened the door to me. "

"Let's see, " she considered, wrinkling her brows, "I've had her forsix months. Before that I had a woman in to do the rough work. "

"Well, if you could manage it--"

"I managed it, and kept quite within our income, thank you, Osborn. "

"I must say it's very jolly to have you all to myself like this. Wealways used to talk of what we'd do when my ship came home, and nowhere she is!"

"Poor Osborn! You _must_ be glad. "

"Aren't _you_?"

"Of course I am. "

"We'll have a bigger flat; it's rather a crowd here, isn't it?"

"Yes, I'd like another room. "

"You shall have what you like, darling. "

He put an arm round her shoulders, drawing her face to his. "You knowI'd like to give you the world!"

She was silent. 

He kissed her cheek, holding her against him. "I must show you whatI've brought as soon as I unpack. I got you some things in the BonMarché--I think you'll like them. "

"I'm sure to. "

"Tell me what you've been doing. I want to hear all about you, " hesaid persistently. 

"There's very little to tell. I've been able to go out a great dealmore lately; and I've been resting and reading while I had theopportunity. I took the children to the sea in the summer. Ann wentwith us, so I was very free and had long walks and swims. It wasdelightful. "

"And you've missed me?" he asked quickly. "I don't hear anything aboutthat. "

"We have all missed you. "

Her assurance left him vaguely unsatisfied. She drew away from himwith a sidelong glance, half sad, half ribald, as if she knew and wasregretfully amused at what he was thinking. She leaned over the table, cake knife in hand. 

"Have some of this iced cake, Osborn? Bought specially for you. "

For a while that pleased and appeased him. He asked more casually fornews, and she told him of Rokeby's and Julia's surprise wedding. 

He sat back, astonished, exclaiming:

"Good heavens! How unsuitably people marry!"

"They do, don't they?"

The noise in the next room had subsided; and presently the handle ofthe sitting-room door turned quietly, and three inquiring faces lookedin, Minna holding the baby steady. 

Over Marie's face there came a change. From its half-coldinconsequence and restraint, it warmed and lighted, as her hands wentout eagerly. 

"Come along, chicks, " she said; and then, turning to her husband, sheadded quickly: "If you don't mind? I always read to them beforebedtime. Do you mind?"

"Why should I, darling?" he said, surprised. 

The three children, encouraged, came forward. George had the chosenbook under his arm and, opening it at a favourite story, he laid it onhis mother's knee. Nursing the baby and with Minna snuggled into herother arm, she prepared to read. 

"Come and sit on my knee, old chap, " Osborn whispered to George. 

The child came dutifully, but his attention was for his mother. Shebegan to read in her light, clear voice, and for some while that wasthe only sound in the room; the man and the three children listened, as if entranced. During the progress of the reading Ann came inwithout interrupting and took the baby away to bed. 

A quarter of an hour later it was Minna's turn, and only Georgeremained; he was eager to tell his mother of the day's experiences atschool; clambering down from his father's lap he went to her, and, with an arm flung about her neck, began an involved account. 

She listened with interest and comprehension. And Osborn looked atGeorge's rapt face and her loving one, and drew a sharp comparisonbetween what mattered and trash. 

At last George went, and the husband and wife were alone again. 

He started to the door on a sudden impulse. 

"I'll unpack and get those things, " he said over his shoulder. 

"Yes, do, " she nodded, "before George goes to sleep. Your things arein the dressing-room, and he will be there. "

"We've simply got to have another flat, " he replied, with a pleasantsensation of the power to pay for it. 

For a few minutes Marie Kerr sat quiet, staring at the fire. Thehome-coming, so stimulating to Osborn, had for her been inexpressiblystale. She was not thrilled; she was left cold as the November nightoutside. The new and pretty habits of her life were in peril of beingbroken, and her reluctance that it should be so was keen. She got upand mended the fire and patted the cushions absently. She could hearOsborn talking to his son, and Ann busy in the kitchen. 

A man in the house was once more going to set the clock of life. 

Before Osborn had found what he sought she went to her bedroom. Thebaby and Minna were sleeping side by side in their cots, a screendrawn round them to shade them from the light. Deep in the perfectslumber of childhood, they did not awake at her careful entry. Sheswitched up the electric light over her dressing-table, and began tochange her blouse and skirt for the black frock in which she dined. While she was standing thus, half dressed, Osborn came in. 

She swung round upon him, hands raised in the act of smoothing herhair, and there was something in her face which made him halt. Helooked at her uncertainly. 

She could not have helped saying if she would:

"You startled me. I didn't hear you knock. "

He had not knocked. The puzzle in his head increased. Why should heknock? His mouth opened and shut again. He came forward hesitatingly. 

"I--I--what do you mean, darling?" he began. "I wanted to bring youthese. "

His coming thus was to her symbolic of legal intrusion upon all herfuture privacy. In that year, privacy had been one of the things sheenjoyed most, after the edge was off the first loneliness. She foundit hard to relinquish her right to it. She stepped into the frockquickly, and drew it upwards before he reached her. His hands werefull of little things, which he cast in a hurry upon thedressing-table. She knew that he wanted to touch, to fondle her. Sheslipped her arms swiftly into the sleeves and fastened the first hookacross her breast; in her eyes a shrinking antagonism unveiled itself. 

She uttered hurriedly: "We have to be very quiet; the children areasleep. "

He cast a cursory glance towards the screened corner. 

"They're all right; they can't see or hear or anything else. Come hereand let me put this hair-band thing on. "

She stood a dressing-table length away, fumbling with the hooks, hereyes fixed on him. 

"I have lots of things to say to you, " she began suddenly. 

"Say them to-morrow, " he replied in his old way. 

"No, " she said, "they have to be said to-night--not this minute, perhaps, but presently. "

She was in Osborn's arms again, and he was touching her throat, herhair, and the velvet texture of her cheek. 

"You've got fatter again, " he was saying delightedly; "you look justlike the little girl I married, only there's something bigger aboutyou; firmer. There's no doubt marriage stiffens a woman up. That's it, isn't it? You're sure of yourself. "

She gazed full into his eyes. "Yes. I'm sure of myself; absolutelysure. "

"You always had ripping hair; but I think it's got thicker, hasn't it?It's springy, sort of electric. "

"It used to be thick; and then it was thin; and now it's thick again, I think. "

"You do it differently. "

"One changes with the styles. "

"_You_ would, you up-to-date thing. Now, you're going to look atthese souvenirs of Paris, aren't you?"

He held her close to his side, while he showed her what he had chosen;the pale-pink collars--"You were always gone on pink, weren't you?" heasked--the silk stockings and the vanity garters. With clumsy fingershe tried to adjust the hair-band. 

"Let me do it, " she protested, "if you really want me to wear it. "

"Well, don't _you_ want to?" he asked, a little hurt. 

"I'd love to, if I may put it on properly. It's sweet. "

"It makes you look awf'ly French!"

"Does that improve me?"

"You don't want improving. "

He sat down by the dressing-table, while she stood, fixing theglittering circle round her hair with clever fingers. He kept his handon her waist and, leaning forward, looked at her in the glass. She hada lithe naturalness, a slim strength, which newly arrested hisadmiration. Struck by the charm of his own wife, he missed no detailof her appearance. She had dressed to please herself with a truewoman's delight in _dessous_; and he was quick to notice themauve gleam of ribbon shoulder straps under the filmy black of herbodice, which gave the sombre gown a charming colour-note; hersleeves, transparent, long, and braceleted round the wrists with blackvelvet bands, showed the whole length of her white arms; in her earsamethyst earrings repeated the note of the mauve ribbons. Herstockings were silk and her slippers of velvet. 

She was as amazing to him as a beautiful stranger. 

"It doesn't go with my earrings, " she said carelessly when she hadfixed the band, "but it's so pretty, and thank you ever so much. "

She turned and showed him; and she showed him, too, the interest shetook in herself, which had caused her to pull out those waves offluffy hair over the tops of her ears, from under the hair-band, andthe curls she had pulled from beneath to dance on her forehead. 

"Give me a kiss for it, " he said, drawing her down. 

She kissed him lightly. 

"Fancy you the mother of a family!" he remarked, with a look at thescreened corner. 

She smiled to herself, and began fingering the other things. "How nicethey are! And silk stockings! They're always welcome. "

"But you're wearing them already, " he said, with rather a disappointedglance at her ankles. 

"That doesn't matter. If there's one thing you can't glut a womanwith, it's silk stockings. "

"Thanks, Mrs. Kerr! I'll remember that when I come home in the smallhours and have to provide a peace offering. "

"Come home any time you like, " she said goodhumouredly, "there willalways be peace as far as I am concerned. "

When he had entered the room, he had missed something in it; and nowit occurred to him what it was. 

"Where's my bed?" he demanded. 

"In the dressing-room. I had it moved there, when you went; I thoughtI might as well give myself more space. "

"Of course! I noticed something unusual about the dressing-room. Youwaited for me to move it back here, I suppose? It's rather a tough jobfor women. "

"The hall-porter would have done it, you know. "

"Never mind, pet. I'll do it ever so quietly after dinner. "

She did not reply. 

"Are you ready?" he asked. "Come back to the fire, and sit down. There's so much to tell each other about, isn't there?"

She moved to the door acquiescently and switched out the light, hefollowing. A savoury smell crept through the chinks of the kitchendoor, with the all-pervasiveness of cookery in flats. He sniffed it. 

"How familiar! But you don't do the cooking now?"

"No; I only help, sometimes. Ann's a treasure. "

"What do we pay her?"

"Thirty pounds a year. "

"Whew!"

She cast a sidelong glance at him. "A domestic drudge is worth it, Iassure you; women have been consistently underrated. "

"But fool work like cleaning saucepans and helping with the kids--"

"Shutting oneself up with the sink; working early; working late;breathing ashes and dust and grease; keeping tolerably civil andcheerful over it . . . That's the job we're speaking of. I ought to knowall about it, " she said in a low voice, as if to herself. 

She sat in her corner of the chesterfield and took up her knitting. Hesat down, too, by her, all at once alert, surveying the flyingmovements of her dear hands; hands as tender and white as ever heremembered them. 

"Oh come!" he said in affectionate but uneasy remonstrance, "you don'tlook much as if you'd been shut up with the sink, working early andworking late. "

"You forget I've had a whole year's holiday. " She kept her eyes on herwork, as if re-casting that first year upon her busy needles. "Atleast, " she reflected, almost as if to herself, "part of the time wasonly half-holiday; but the last six months have been wonderful. "

Jealousy rose in Osborn; jealousy of he knew not what. Something orsomeone had brought colour and smiles to her, and it was not himself. As he began to suggest that fact to himself, before he could do morethan begin: "How, do you mean--?" the door opened, and the maidannounced: "Dinner is served, ma'am. "

Marie sprang up and put her hand kindly in his arm. 

"Come along, " she said. "We have all your favourite things, so I hopeyou're hungry. "

CHAPTER XXII

PLAIN DEALING

Re-entering the dining-room Osborn was struck by its comfort andcharm. It was a room humanised by the hand of a kind and clever woman. And how well-ordered his table was! How nice his silver looked! Howwell his wife looked! What good cooking he could command! And in whatattractively comfortable circumstances he now found himself after thatyear which had ended by palling; that year in which he had done asother men--free men!

There was no place like home, for permanence; no woman like the wifeof one's choice, for permanence. These were the things which mattered. 

He was moved to speak to her in some measure of this thought duringdinner. They were not separated from one another by the whole breadthof the table. He sat on his wife's right hand, and the maid servedthem from the sideboard, an arrangement which pleased him because itsaved him the trouble of carving, and also because it was rathersmart, he thought, for home, where things generally tended to bedowdy. 

"I've had an awf'ly good time, this last year, " he confided, "but I'mglad to be back. There's nothing like one's own home and one's owngirl. " The maid having gone to the kitchen, he reached for andsqueezed his wife's hand. "I'm going to be an awf'ly good boy nowyou've got me again, " he assured her. 

"Don't bore yourself, " she said with gentle politeness. 

"What--what queer things women say!" he observed, after a pause, inwhich he had regarded her with some surprise. 

"Not so queer as the things men do, " she replied thoughtfully. 

He started and felt a flush creeping from his collar to the roots ofhis hair. She spoke almost as if she knew of the folly and fun--buteven as the idea came to him he knew it to be impossible. It was justone of the half-bitter remarks which wives made. Bitterness in a womanwas horrible. The flush on his face had been imperceptible to her inthe roseate light of the pink candle-shades, he was glad to think; buthe waited until it had subsided before he spoke with a hint ofreproof. 

"I say, don't try sarcasm. Sarcasm in a woman jars, somehow. "

"I wasn't sarcastic, really. " Her tone was of raillery and somehow hedidn't like that she should speak so lightly. 

"Besides, " he said, with an inconsequent effort, "as to the queerthings men do, men are natural animals all the world over. "

"And you don't suppose we forget it?"

She had a pretty laugh; but what made for laughter in her question?

"Men are men, " he stated, rather at a loss, "and women are women. "

She laughed more. 

"It's been said before" she replied. 

Osborn was relieved to find the maid at his elbow with a sweet. 

"Alexandra cream, sir?" she was asking confidentially. 

"I hope you'll like this, Osborn, " said Marie; "I prepared it myselfthis morning. "

When the maid had gone, he switched off to a less troublous track. 

"My socks are all in a shocking condition; I don't know how long it'lltake to mend 'em, dear. "

"I'll spend to-morrow looking over your things. I daresay you wantrepairs throughout. "

"You're a darling. I believe I've wanted you to look after me. Butdon't stew in over my mending all day. Run into town and lunch withme. "

"I'll be delighted, Osborn. "

"We must have a beano one evening, quite soon. You'd like it?"

"I'd love it. "

He smiled affectionately, pressing her hand. It was nice to give awoman such pleasure. 

After dinner they were to make their own coffee in their old way, inthe sitting-room; and after Marie had made it and brought his cup tohim, Osborn leaned back in his corner of the couch to smoke and dreamand talk happily, as a well-fed man does. His gaze, wandering roundthe room, found the piano, which he recognised with respect. 

"I say, you said the cushions were the only different things. There'sthat!" He nodded towards the instrument. 

"Yes, " she said, her eyes following his, "there's mother's piano. Imust tell you all about her will, Osborn; about everything. She leftall she had to me. "

"The furniture and money?"

"Yes. I sold most of the furniture; Mr. Rokeby helped me to arrange itand saw the dealers for me. "

"Good old Desmond! I must thank him for that. "

"He's been extremely kind. " She looked into the fire. "_Extremely_, " she repeated. "He advised me and told me exactlywhat to do. "

"Did the furniture make much?" Osborn asked with masculine interest inthings financial. 

"A hundred and fifty pounds, odd. "

"Good!" he exclaimed. 

"I paid off all the rest of our own furniture instalments with it. "

"Oh, splendid!" he exclaimed in approval. 

"I hoped you'd think so. A hundred cleared it, as you would know. "

"So little Marie had fifty pounds odd for her own banking account!"

"Not at all, " she said, smiling into the fire as if she saw a verypleasant vision there; "I spent it. "

Osborn took his pipe from his mouth and sat forward. "Whatever on?" heejaculated. 

His motion was surprise rather than disapproval. The money was hers, of course. But that a woman should have the temerity to spend fiftypounds odd in a few months when she was already supplied with enoughto ensure comfort for herself and her family. . . . 

She lifted her head and looked at him. She dared him. The curls on herforehead danced and the amethyst eardrops twinkled; the shrug of hershoulders brought the mauve ribbons again under his notice. 

"As I told you, I'm going into accounts with you this evening. "

"Oh, well . . . It's your own affair. "

"But husbands like to make wives' affairs their own, don't they?"

She rose to find her account-books in a pigeon-hole of the bureau. Hercolour had faded; her eyes were bright. Like all women she feared thehour of battle, while she did not flinch from it. So pretty shelooked, standing there, that Osborn sprang up after her. He was justman--not husband, not master, nor judge, nor timekeeper of the home;but man, admiring and passionate. 

"I say, hang the accounts! Come to me!"

There was again that about her which checked him. It was an almostvirginal aloofness, though he would not have known how so to defineit. When she sat down once more by his side he reached for his pipeagain calmly and put it between his teeth, clenching them hard on thestem. 

"Well, pretty cat?" he asked in a strained voice. 

The old love-name fell upon cold ears. Opening the first book, shemused busily:

"This is the housekeeping; the other's odd expenses. But I'd betterfinish telling you about mother's will first. She left me two hundredand twenty pounds a year. "

This time he made no sign at the news, except by raising his eyebrowsand directing towards her a steady look of interest and inquiry. 

"So, " she continued, "we have been quite well off. Directly you left Ireckoned up our expenses and found we were better off than before, ontwo hundred a year, and I got a charwoman. I told you the first partof the year was like a half-holiday. After my dear mother died and Ihad the money, I engaged Ann. "

"Quite right, " he said rather gruffly. 

"I am like you, Osborn, I have had a great year. If it hadn't meantlosing mother it would have been a perfect year. "

After a long pause, he dropped out, incredulously:

"Without me?"

She felt her hands grow suddenly cold with fear of the battle. 

"Yes, " she nodded, "without you. "

As he looked at her she was again as dazzling to him as a beautifulstranger; and as strange. 

He said somewhat stiffly: "That's not exactly what a man expects tohear when he comes back after a long time. "

"I'm sorry. "

"You've changed somehow. What's the matter?"

"I've grown young again. That's all, isn't it?"

"I don't know if that's all. "

"Let's talk of something else, " she said gaily; "tell me more aboutyourself. I've had no details yet, and I'm longing for them. You'rekeeping the job, are you? And just what good things does keeping itmean?"

"A fur coat for Marie, " he said with a hint of reproachful pathos. 

"How lovely! But what will it mean to you was what I'm asking?"

"The salary is five hundred, as you know. " And guardedly, for he knewmany men who deemed it well to be careful over telling their wivesthese things, he added: "With any luck the commission's more than thesalary. "

He left it vague, like that, for safety. 

"I do congratulate you, Osborn. "

"Our ship's really in, at last, you see, old girl. "

"My poor income fades into the background behind yours!"

"Well, yours isn't so bad for a woman!"

"So I've found. I've had clothes, and gone about, and begun to thinkand read and see good plays again, all on the strength of it. "

She opened a bank-book. "This is all the accounting for the twohundred you arranged to be paid in to me. You'll see I've used itlegitimately--none of it's gone on frippery. And I've paid George'sschooling myself this last six months, and Ann's wages, as I hadn'tyour permission for either. So you'll see there's even a balance leftto your credit. "

"Why make a song about my 'permission'? You've always been a freeagent, haven't you?"

"Won't you just run your eye over this, now you're taking hold of thefamily bank account again?"

To satisfy her he took the book and skimmed over figures rapidly. 

"You've been a good girl. "

"So glad you think so. "

Osborn smoked on quietly, but his thoughts were turbulent. She wasgiving him strange qualms, and he could not quite understand herdirection. That something worked in her head he guessed, but, unwilling to hear of it, he asked no questions. It was verycomfortable by the fire, and when he pitched the account-books awayfrom her and took her hand again, she let it lie in his. 

He pressed it. 

"Well?" he whispered with a meaning look, wanting response. 

It seemed as if she had none to give, kind and sweet as she was tohim. 

"I'm forgetting, " he said in a few minutes, leaning forward to knockout his pipe, "that I've a job to do for you. I'll see to thatbedstead now, shall I?"

"Why?" she said coldly. "It is all ready made up for you in thedressing-room. What do you want to do?"

He stared, bewildered. 

"I'm not going to sleep there. "

"Aren't you? Then I will. "

He began to see dimly the meaning of her mood; but he was stumblingabout in darkness to find her reasons for it. What reasons could shehave for so extraordinary a reply?

"My dear good girl, " he cried sharply, "explain yourself. "

"I don't know how to, exactly. But I have liked having my room tomyself. I wish to keep it. "

"You've got some nonsense into your head--"

"It isn't nonsense. It's just fact. I've been without a husband for ayear and I've found it wonderfully restful. I can be without him somemore. "

"Have you any idea of the rubbish you're talking?"

She looked at him curiously, unaffected by his authoritative tone, and, seeing her disaffection, he felt uncomfortably at a loss, sincehis authority had failed him. He was dumbfounded; angry and strickenat once; he had not the least idea now what tone to take. 

He dropped suddenly to persuasion. 

"Look here, my dear girl, tell me what you're thinking of. You knowI'm only too anxious to respect your feelings and wishes; I don'tthink I've ever violated them to the least extent, have I? If I have, it was unknowingly. You women have such queer moods. What is it?Perhaps you're unwell and nervy, though you look all right. Anyway, come here and tell me all about it. "

To avoid his encircling arm she rose. She laid one arm along themantelpiece, and put one foot on the fender as if to be warmed; theattitude struck him as exceedingly negligent, and when she began tospeak it was in no sense as an argument, but as a statement of factslong ago cut-and-dried for storage in her mind. 

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. But I don't want you. I couldn't bearyou in my room. "

She had got it out, and he was saying nothing, only sitting forward, hands on knees, looking up at her, horror, anger and disbelief in hisface. 

She went on: "It'll be no good arguing. I've suffered and suffered, and had it all out with myself, and it's over. But I'll tell youeverything, putting it plainly, because I'd like you to understand--ifmen ever do trouble to understand. Look at me!"

"I'm looking. "

"Then you see I've changed. You thought so when you came in. I'm youngagain; I've rested and got my complexion back. My hair's nice; I gettime for regular shampoos now. I spend a lot of my time on myself. It's lovely. And my teeth, have you noticed them?"

She set them together and opened her lips to show him all the gleamywhiteness between. 

"I spent ten pounds on them, having them filled and cleaned andpolished; I go regularly to the dentist now. And my hands, have younoticed them?"

Osborn met her question by a dead silence. 

"They're as they used to be again. And I've done it all in this yearyou've been away. And there's another thing--it occurred to me theother day when I was wondering what really made all thedifference--there's not been a cross word or a grumble in this flatfor twelve months. That's happiness. Heavens! That keeps women young!"

She stopped and thought, and continued slowly:

"Marriage is funny. It's a thing men can't bear unless it's gilded. And they vent their intolerance. Do you know that before you wentaway--for four years--I scarcely ever expected you to say loving orcivil things. Before you went out in the mornings you shouted for thebreakfast, and I was hurrying all I could; and you grumbled if thechildren made a noise. And when you came in, if dinner wasn't ready orright, you grumbled at that again. And in the week-ends the kids daredhardly play, and I was buffer all the time between you and them. It'sjust what happens in thousands of homes, of course. "

"This exaggeration--"

"Ah, it isn't. It sounds bad, but it isn't so very. It's ratherordinary. And, Osborn, do you remember when I had to ask you formoney--?"

She looked at him freezingly. "Do you think a woman who's been beggedand cajoled and petted into marrying a man enjoys creeping andcrawling to him for odd shillings for household expenses? Do men thinkwe enjoy it or do it wilfully, that they grudge it so? We can't helpit. "

"Where's all this harangue--"

"There's more to it yet. Do you know when you told me you were goingaway at once for a year, I thought I was broken? I loved you so. Itseemed awful to see the gladness and relief in your face at leavingus, getting rid of us for a whole year! I'd been watching you for solong, and seeing you change, and get irritated with it all, and tryingto keep young for you when I was tired out. And that night, when I sawhow I'd failed, how dead your love was--"

"No; it was never dead, Marie. "

"Wasn't it? Was it sleeping, then? Where was it? What was it doing?"

"You see--"

"Oh, yes, I see. I saw, then, how joyfully you shelved us all. Youwere like a boy let out of school. And I'd worked so hard to keep homehappy for you, but you just thought of it as a place of bills andworry and children, presided over by a perpetual asker. That nightbefore you went, do you remember leaving me to mend your things?"

"Yes. "

"When you had gone, I cried, and prayed; it didn't do any good. Ididn't know women could suffer so--even when the children were born--"

Osborn sprang up. "Don't, " he said hurriedly, with visions of anguishin his mind. 

"Very well. I don't want to harrow you. I'm only just giving theexplanation you asked. A year ago you left me, glad to go, and Ithought my heart would break. But it didn't. And it's changed. You'vecome back--to exact again all the things that husbands do exact. But Idon't want you. "

She had appalled him. 

He stammered hoarsely: "I don't understand--I can't see what you wantus to do. "

"Well; to live--apart. "

"You can't mean it. "

"But I do. How often am I to say, I don't want you? The last part ofthis year, after the pain was over, I've been as glad to be withoutyou as during the first part of the year you were glad to be withoutme. Isn't that plain?"

"You're making it horribly plain. And now I'm going to ask you, couldI help being poor and short of cash?"

She shook her head. "No! But I couldn't either, and you were awfullydown on me. "

"'Down' on you! _I!_"

"You grumbled persistently every day. The kiddies and I just waitedupon your moods. And if I had to ask for anything, you weren't kindabout it; you just flung out of the place, leaving me all the worries. You never helped nor shared. I've come to this conclusion lately; thatit simply isn't worth while living with a person who grumblespersistently and has to be propitiated every day. "

He reflected deeply, his hands in his trousers pockets. 

"I think I'm taking all this sermon peaceably enough, " he barkedsavagely. 

Again he had that disaffected look from her; she seemed to analyse himcoldly. 

"It isn't a sermon. Go on grumbling and nagging and grudging everyday, if you want to. I haven't asked you to refrain. I've merelyexplained that, as a result of your husbandly behaviour, you've ceasedto attract me, and I don't want to live with you--intimately--again. "

He caught her arm. "Look here! I know. You've been to some of thesebeastly Suffragette meetings. "

She laughed scornfully. 

"Suffragette! Don't be an ass, dear!"

"No, " he said under his breath, regarding her, "you haven't. Hanged ifI know what you have been doing. "

"I told you. Getting my youth back. Do you know what a very prettyyoung girl feels like? Did you know what I used to feel like when youwere engaged to me? Like a queen with a crowd of courtiers at herorders and you the most courtier-like of them all! You used to hang onevery word I said and promise me heaven and earth, and my every lookwas law. Oh! the power a pretty young girl feels in herself!"

Standing on tiptoe she looked into the glass, touched her fluffs ofhair and the purple earrings with tender finger-tips. 

"I've got it back, " she said with a thrill. "I feel it flowing back;the power one has through being pretty and magnetic. If a woman'stired out she can't be magnetic. But I've got it all again--and more. I wonder if a man can ever understand the pleasure of having it? It'scoming to me again just as I had it fresh and unconquered in thosedear old days when you were at my feet. "

He spoke in a sort of beaten amazement. "If you want me again at yourfeet--"

"Thank you, I don't. I'll never pay the price again. Never! Never!"

"Then whom do you want? Do you mean there's anyone else? By God! ifthere is--"

As she saw his fury she could laugh. "There isn't. "

"Let's sit down again, " he said more quietly; "this isn't threshed outyet. "

"If more discussion gives you any pleasure I'll discuss. But what Isaid I meant. I'm not glad to see you; I'm sorry. You mean thebreaking-up of household peace for me again. Men would be surprised, if they knew how many wives are glad to see their husbands go. "

"Take care you don't drive me into going for good. Your way oftreating a man is pretty dangerous. "

"I'm sorry, " she replied with a convincing gentleness, "that Ishouldn't care if you did go. I'd have the children. "

"Do you mean they've been more to you than I have?"

"What haven't they been to me?" Her face was soft. "You can'tthink--you've never troubled to know--how kind children are. "

"Once I was first with you. "

She quoted with irreverent glee: "'And they that were first shall belast. '"

"You can laugh?"

"Thank God I can, at last. "

"Supposing I did go--right now?"

She shrugged her shoulders slightly and the mauve shoulder strapsagain arrested him. She did not speak; but without her answer, whatever it would have been, he knew that he could not leave her; thathe must always come back at last, longing for her arms. 

Ten o'clock struck, and she looked up thoughtfully at the wedding-gifttimepiece. 

"I'm going to bed, " she said. "Good night. "

A dark rush of colour flooded his face. "You really mean--"

She nodded. 

"Then, " he almost whispered, "exactly how do we stand?"

"I'll keep house for you very capably and look after our children. Youcan leave me if you like, you know. "

"God!" he groaned. "What are women made of?"

"Ordinary flesh and blood that gets tired and wants loving. Have youonly just remembered to inquire?"

He ran after her along the corridor as she went swiftly to her room. 

"Marie!" he prayed. "Relent! Marie, it'll be all so different now. I've all this money; you could have what you wanted. "

"I know it'll be different. But, you see, you've done something to me;you've killed all the love I had for you, drained it dry somehow. There's none left. I just--I just--don't want you. "

She left his hands and gained her door, leaving him standing; he couldhave followed her forcibly, but it would have been violation. He feltit and was frightened. Through his anger there broke this fear, thefear of further offending her. When she turned to ask naturally, "You'll turn out the lights?" he just nodded. His mouth was very dry. He wheeled round abruptly, returning to the warm room they had justleft. 

The whole room seemed to bear her impress; the faintest perfume, almost too delicate to be definite scent, hung there; on the bureauthe little stocking she was knitting adhered to the ball of wool, pierced thereto by the long needles. It looked homely, but it was nothome. Something had happened, devastating home. He sat for awhile in asunk posture of dejection, his head in his hands and his elbows on hisknees. 

"She'll come round, " he assured himself presently. 

Sentences isolated themselves from her burning speech and struck inhis brain . . . "if I had to ask for anything, you weren't kind about it;you just flung out of the place, leaving me all the worries. You neverhelped nor shared. " . . . "A year ago you left me, glad to go, and Ithought my heart would break. " . . . "But I don't want you. " . . . 

"If she knew, " he thought restlessly, with Roselle in his mind, "it'dbe different. I'd understand what's piqued her. But, as far as sheknows, she's been no worse off than other men's wives. "

Her joy over her restored teeth and hands surprised him; it seemed sofreshly childish. "I'll own it's hard on women, " he thought, "but whatcould I have done? What did she expect me to do?"

He was quivering, soft, vulnerable. 

"Did I really mean--just that--to her and the kids? Just somebodycoming in to grump and grumble. . . . "

The fire died down while he sat there, but what matter? She was notlying awake for him. When the desire came to him to make one lastappeal, he checked it. 

"No, " he told himself cautiously, "give her time--lots of it. She'llcome round. "

He began to rake out the ashes suddenly and methodically, to switchout the lights. And very soberly he went to the room where his smallson lay asleep. 

His entrance roused George. 

"Are you going to sleep with me, Daddy?" he asked nervously. 

"Yes, old son, " Osborn replied as nervously as the child had spoken. 

"I'll be very quiet in the morning, Daddy, " said George. 

"You needn't be, old boy, " Osborn replied. 

He sat down on the edge of George's bed, with a wish that someone ofall his household, this child at least, should be glad to see him. 

"We're going to be great pals, " he stated, "aren't we?"

"Yes, Daddy, " the child answered. 

"Give me a kiss and say good night, then. "

George obeyed dutifully. Osborn tucked him up and turned away. As heundressed he thought of the toys he would buy the children to-morrow. 

CHAPTER XXIII

INDIFFERENCE

Marie met her husband serenely at the breakfast-table next morning. She looked fair and fresh and had other things to do than to give himundivided attention. George and Minna were at table, behavingcharmingly, though the baby, being yet at a sloppy stage, was takingher breakfast in the kitchen in deference to her father's return. Osborn paid his family some attention and his newspaper none; and heappeared to be in no hurry to be off. 

"My first morning back, " he remarked; "I need hardly turn uppunctually. "

"I suppose, " said Marie, with interest, from behind her coffee-pot, "that your work will be rather different. "

"It will, rather. I believe I'm to put in some days in town, and thenrun down to our various agents in the Midlands. There's quite a busyprogramme mapped out, I believe. "

"You'll enjoy that. "

"Shall you go away again, Daddy?" asked Minna. 

"Don't talk at breakfast, dear, " said her mother. 

Osborn looked across at his wife. 

"I shall be off your hands a good deal. "

Bitterness savoured his voice. She smiled at him sympathetically, buthe smarted under the knowledge that her sympathy did not go very deep. Yet he was strangely reluctant to hurry away. He remained until Georgehad started for school; until Minna had begged to be allowed to getdown and go to see baby finish her breakfast. Then he rose, and wentrather heavily round the table to his wife, and laid a hand on hershoulder. 

"I couldn't sleep. I was thinking of you and all the things you saidlast night. "

"I'm sorry you didn't sleep. I expect you were rather tired withtravelling; over-tired, perhaps. "

"I was as fresh as paint when I got here yesterday and you know I was. _You_ took it out of me. "

"We shan't be able to argue about this every day; I couldn't stand it, Osborn. "

"I'm ready to say that I daresay we men are thoughtless sort ofbrutes; but you didn't marry one of the worst by a long chalk, youknow. "

A smile twitched her lips, goading him to desperation. 

"No, " she owned. "There was nothing lurid about you. But, heavens! itwas dull!"

He took his hand off her shoulder and went to search for matches andpipe on the mantelpiece. He noticed many little things acutely in hisunhappiness; how nicely the silver vases were cleaned, and that thepiperack was kept on the righthand side now instead of the left. 

"You'll come round. "

"If you knew how impossible it seems to me you wouldn't say that. "

"I suppose I shall be worrying over this business all day as well asall night?"

"I hope not. I'm lunching with you, at one, at the Royal Red. "

"What! You'll come to lunch?"

"You asked me. "

Pleasure, almost triumph, lit his face. "I'll give you a good time. Sure you wouldn't like some other place better than the Royal Red?"

"I've got, somehow, a special ache for it. "

"Then you must have what you want, of course. I'll get awaypunctually, so as not to keep you waiting. "

Marie accompanied him into the hall to help him on with his coat, andto remark that his muffler needed washing. But she did not kiss him onparting; before he could ask mutely for the salute she was on her wayback to the breakfast-table. 

She sat there some while after he had gone, comfortably finishing herown meal, which had been interrupted by attendance on the children, asif deliberately determining that Osborn's return should interfere inno whit with her recent ease. Only when she was quite ready, with nohurry and at her own pleasure, did she start out to the Heath to givethe children their morning airing. 

"Mummie, " said Minna, "George said Daddy has promised to bring us sometoys. "

"That's very kind of Daddy, isn't it?"

She walked thoughtfully. "Things have changed, " she said to herself, "I suppose money has changed them. It always can. " She thought thiswith a certain enjoyment, yet down underneath, where that stony organwhich used to be her heart lay, she knew that she wanted, more thanthousands and thousands of pounds, the light and life of that firstyear over again. What joy was like the birth of such love? Or whatregret like the death of it?

Their walk on the Heath lasted till eleven o'clock, when she returnedto put the children under the charge of the maid. She was meticulousin her instructions for their care and requirements, almost passionatein her loving good-byes to them. Truly no one, she thought again, astheir arms clung about her neck, could know all that they had been toher, how heavenly kind they were. 

Minna, admiring her mother's clothes, walked with her to the door andwaved her down the bleak staircase. 

It was precisely one o'clock when Marie Kerr entered the lounge of thebig restaurant, where she had waited some while for Osborn on abirthday evening which she remembered keenly this morning. But thistime he was there before her, waiting anxious and alert, like a loverfor the lady of his affections. He had booked a table and upon it, asshe sat down, she saw, laid beside her cover, a big bunch of herfavourite violets, blue and dewy. 

"You still like them best?" he asked. 

"Still faithful, " she smiled back lightly and, when she had thrownopen her coat, she pinned them at her breast. 

She looked around her unafraid. 

Her clothes were good; her hair was burnished; her hands were white;her man worshipped like the other women's men. 

She was once more, after that long, that humble and tearfulabdication, at the zenith of her power. 

 * * * * *

They did not rise from their table until nearly three o'clock. Twiceshe had asked: "How about the firm?" and twice he had answeredirreverently: "Let them be hanged!" He looked into her eyes wonderingand hoping, but in their clearness read no promise. He tried to leadtheir talk round to the one subject which pervaded and appalled him, but each time that he drove in his wedge of reference she shook herhead at him, smiled and closed her lips, as a woman saying: "You don'ttalk me over in this world or the next. "

But when he reminded her "It was here, to this very table, that I tookyou, on your birthday before last, " she joined him in reminiscence. 

"And I was miserable, envying every woman I saw, ashamed of my frockand my hands and my old shoes; ashamed of everything. I knew Icouldn't compete. "

"You could compete with any woman in the world. " He cast a deprecatinglook around them. 

"I couldn't then. There was a woman I specially envied, I remember, anactress whose name you knew. How long ago it seems. "

"Only a year and a half, " he replied quickly, plunging into a sideissue. 

"You admired her, " she said curiously, "didn't you?"

He lied: "I don't remember. "

"I do, " she said. "I used to pray about you--that woman was in my mindwhen I prayed, and asked God to make you admire me for the childrenI'd borne, and not to let you see how old and ugly I should grow. Doesn't it seem funny?"

"It's not at all funny, " he said, his eyes on the tablecloth. "I'msorry you--if you'd told me--talked to me--"

"You'd have thought me more of a whining wife than ever. "

"Well, it's over, anyway. Won't you forget it?"

"I'm just delighted to forget it. But there's a kind of joy inremembering all the same, such as a man feels in thinking of hisstarvation early days after he's made himself rich. "

"And now I'm to be starved instead?"

Then she collected her muff and gloves, closed her coat, pinning theviolets outside, thanked him for a nice lunch and left him. He paidthe bill in a hurry and hastened after her, catching up with her uponthe kerb. 

"Well, " he said in her ear, "I shall keep on asking. What do youthink?"

She signalled a passing omnibus to stop and boarding it left him witha smile and wave of the hand. For a few seconds, he stood on the kerb, at grips with a feeling of humiliation and defeat, then he began towalk back to his work. He was not yet accustomed to the setting ofthis new act he was playing with his wife--he thought of itthus--though it was making him smart badly. As he went forward, threading his way among the hurrying after-lunch throngs, he wasthinking hard. He attracted some attention from women's eyes as heswung along, oblivious, big, straight-shouldered and masculine. Allthe afternoon, while his mind was ostensibly upon his business, hefumed and fretted. 

In taking up his job in London, he found a good deal to do and to bookthat first day. He had to pay rushing visits to two agents, talk overhis tour with the head of the firm, and drive about the Park, in aRunaway, a rich undecided peer who couldn't make up his mind to buyher. But he bought the car _de luxe_ before they parted, and hischeque lay in Osborn's pocket. 

Another twenty-pounds commission, and what for? To spend on a womanwho coolly didn't want it. Osborn Kerr started for home, chafingsorely. 

On his way to the Piccadilly Tube he passed the Piccadilly Theatre. Outside the doors hung a big frame of photographs of the entire castof Sautree's new production, and he paused to look, absent-minded ashe was, with male interest in that galaxy of charm. In the second rowof faces he met Roselle's. She photographed well, her big, smoothshoulders bare, her hair smooth and smart, her chin uptilted so thatshe looked out, foreshortened. She smiled inscrutably. He knew thesmile well, although he had never translated it so far as to guessthat it covered stupidity in a sphinx's mask that baffled and piqued. That smile was of sterling value to Roselle; it was like so manypounds paid regularly into her pocket; it set men wondering what hermeaning was when all the while she meant nothing. As Osborn Kerrpaused before the rows of portraits, he wondered, a little yet, whatRoselle meant when, so inscrutably, she smiled. 

She was beautiful, there was no doubt of it. He remembered with someself-gratulation those hours spent with her in the blue Runaway withits silver fittings; Roselle in her fur coat and the purple velvet hatcrushed close, in a cheeky fashion, over her night-black hair; andpeople turning to look at them both. He had seen in men's faces asthey passed that they thought him a lucky fellow. They would haveliked to be in his shoes, or rather, in his seat beside her, in theRunaway. 

He passed on, the trouble in his heart a shade lighter for theintrusion of something else, something pleasant. It was like dilutinga nasty draught, or soothing pain by partly anæsthetising it. 

He reached home at his old time; it seemed so familiar to fit the keyinto the lock and step into the hall, redolent, even through theclosed kitchen door, of the savoury preparations for dinner. But nolittle woman ran out, smiling and anxious, to ascertain his mood. 

He had to go in search of her; he opened the sitting-room door andfound her ensconced on the chesterfield, knitting those socks. Thisevening she had on a purply thing, a wrap, a tea-gown--he did not knowwhat to call it--very graceful. It made her look slimmer than ever;and stranger. All these strange clothes had the effect of increasingthe gulf between them. In the old days she had to ask him, and she didnot do it very often, for what she wanted, and it was his to withholdor to give. Everything about her then had seemed familiar because, ina way, it was his. But now she had a horrible independence, a masteryof life, even to spending her own money upon her own clothes. He didnot mind that, of course; he liked her to be able to buy what shewanted; but it made a difference. 

She wore her amethyst earrings, but not the hair ornament from Paris. 

Coming up behind her quickly, he bent over and kissed her cheek, itbeing all that she offered. He laid a box of sweets on a table near, and it reminded her of that evening before he went away, when he hadbrought home a packet of chocolates to sugar his news. 

"Not lost your sweet tooth I hope, " he smiled. 

"It's sweeter than ever. "

He untied the ribbons. "Do you still thread these in your cammies?"

"If they're pretty. That'll do for Minna--I'm wearing mauve now. "

"I'd noticed. "

"Because of poor mother, you know. "

"Oh, of course. " He put a bonbon in her mouth. 

"What a nice baby it is!" he said softly, stroking her silk knee. 

He knew himself to be a fool, but all that evening he let himselfremain on the rack, wondering; wondering if she'd relent; if herstoniness wasn't just a mood, and if it hadn't passed away; wonderingif he couldn't break down that unnatural opposition in her. And whenat ten o'clock she rose and nodded "Good night, " he detained her, asking again urgently:

"Can't we--can't we--be as we were before?"

"Thank heaven, no!" she replied, with a tiny shudder. 

Osborn looked at her narrowly and spoke crudely:

"Do you know, if I were like some men, I should tell you that Iwouldn't stand such fool nonsense; and there'd be an end of it?"

She went a trifle paler, but displayed no fear. "Don't you dare!" shesaid between her teeth. "I'd leave you next day. "

Again he went a little way up the corridor, but stopped before thealoof reserve of her look. 

"Believe me, " she said gravely, "I couldn't stand you. "

He bit his lip sharply. "It's dangerous, you know, what you're doing. I told you last night men are natural animals all the world over. Ishan't stand being turned down like this for ever; it's absurd, unnatural; it's preposterous after we've been married all these years. I tell you what you're doing is not safe. You'll drive me elsewhere. "

"Make your own life, " she said, with a cheerful indifference; "I haveall I want in mine. "

Osborn turned away with a sharp exclamation; and heard her door clickbehind her while he still stood in the corridor. 

"That's that!" he breathed hard. 

The next morning he took a bag with him and in the afternoon he wiredhome: "Shall not be back for dinner. "

She read the telegram, uncaring. Two years ago it would have made herfear. She would have trembled over it; her heart would have leapt asat a thunderbolt; she would have run to her glass and reckoned withthe sallowness of her face, the little lines about her eyes, eachrepresenting little anxieties about little things; her chapped handsand her dull wits. She would have thought of the other women, thehundreds of them, the younger, freer and fresher women who passed himby every day in the streets. But now she smiled; she felt awfully old, experienced in reading under and between the brief message. 

She mused: "Tactics! How funny men are! Can he think I'll mind?"

It occurred to her, too, that perhaps it was not tactics; perhaps hegenuinely quested in other directions; perhaps, already, she haddriven him elsewhere. And still she was unmoved; she could not care. She longed to care very deeply, tragically, to thrill to the pulse oflife again, but she could not. She even told herself that she was alittle glad on his behalf and her own, if such was the solution. Asshe went in to dinner, and seated herself at the solitary table, sheliked it; privacy had returned to her. This was almost like the yearof her grass-widowhood. 

CHAPTER XXIV

FOOL'S CAP

Osborn visited a smart flower shop when he went out to lunch andordered carnations, a generous sheaf of them, to be sent to MissRoselle Dates at the Piccadilly Theatre at half-past seven. He rang upand booked a stall for himself and, later, sent the wire to his wife. 

"She's cut me loose, " he said to himself, "and that's that. "

He lunched as he liked now, with a memory that could afford to behumorous of the five-shilling weekly limit to which he had cut himselfdown in the bad old days only just over a year ago. But they were dearold days, too, when this extraordinary complication between his wifeand him wasn't even thought of. . . . 

His luck was wonderful. He sold another car that afternoon. Twothree-hundred-pound cars in two days, meaning forty pounds in hispocket! People liked him; he was big, good-looking and plausible, andhe had a way with him which absolutely prevented any possiblepurchaser from ever giving another thought to any two-seater but theRunaway. When he turned out of the establishment that winterafternoon, on his way to an hotel to dress for his early and lonelydinner somewhere or other, he was pleased. Brisk business did a littletowards lightening his trouble, just as less innocuous excitementsmight do. 

"Stick to business and stick to fun, " he told himself grimly, as hestrode along, "and you'll worry through. "

He thought of his children more than of anyone else throughout thecourses of his dinner in a light, bright, well-served restaurant. George was a fine little boy, and should be done well, thoroughlywell, with no expense spared; he must get to know the little chap, take him about a bit and make him interested in things worth knowing. Minna was going to be pretty, a facsimile of her mother; and the babywas a splendid little female animal. There was no doubt that hepossessed three beautiful kids of whom any man might be proud. 

Surely, if only for their sakes, some day she'd soften and return tohim? Some evening he'd come home and find her as she used to be duringthe first year, sweet and eager, and shining; loving andpassionate. . . . 

Osborn smoked several cigarettes over his coffee thinking of thesethings; he was in no hurry to see the show at the Piccadilly, andthere would be plenty of time for Roselle afterwards. But he wasrather lonely here by himself, and looked around somewhat wistfully atgay couples, laughing parties, all about him. There was not a womanthere who could equal Marie, he said to himself; if she were only herewith him, with her fresh, soft face, and her springing hair, and herround and slender figure, she'd put all this paint and powder rightout of court. 

But she was sitting afar off in a quiet flat, softly lighted, ineffably cosy, in the place called home, where husbands were notwanted. 

He confessed to himself: "It used to be pretty beastly for her; alittle delicate thing--three babies and no nurse; no help withanything. I suppose I could have done a lot, but how's one to think ofthese things? I suppose I've failed as a husband, but what am I to doabout it now? It's all over and can't be helped. "

He went to his stall at the Piccadilly, and, looking about him atother men's clothes, decided that he must have new ones. The price ofan evening suit need not trouble him now. He settled down and began toenjoy the play. 

Roselle was on the stage, in the beauty chorus, looking magnificent, and her eyes were sweeping the stalls. They paused here and there intheir saucy habit, lingering upon more than one man with one of hertiny inscrutable smiles winging a message, but their search continueduntil at last she had found Osborn Kerr sitting on the lefthand sidein the third row. He had scribbled on the card which accompanied hisflowers, "Look for me to-night, " and when her look met his, he had asudden thrill of pleasure. Watching her eyes sweeping here and there, it had been exciting to wait for the moment when they should fall onhim. After he had signalled back a discreet smile in answer, he put uphis glasses and looked at her eagerly. 

Her beauty returned to his senses like a familiar thing; he hadadmired the way her hair grew from her temples, and to-night it wasdressed to show the unusual charm; her ankles had always beenwonderfully slim, and to-night they looked finer than ever atop oftwinkly little Court shoes in a vivid green hue; her eyes had thatdeep, still look which expressed her inanity, while having the resultof concealing it. 

During the first interval he scribbled a note to her, and sent itround with an imperative request for an answer. The note asked:

"My dear Roselle, come out to supper? And shall I wait for you at thestage door?--O. K. "

And her reply, in her big, silly back-hand writing, said laconically:

"Right. I'll be out at eleven. --R. D. "

Eleven found him waiting by the stage-door entrance, and she did notkeep him long. Soon she came, big and brilliant, out from the gloomygully, in the inevitable fur-coat which he remembered so well, butwhich had begun now to look battered, and the velvet hat shoved oncheekily, like a man's wideawake. Her eyes and her teeth acclaimed himin a kindred smile, for which he felt the warmer. 

"Hallo, dear old thing!" she greeted him. "I thought you were lost. "

He held her hand, smiling. "This is fine!" he said. "Where shall wego?"

"Romano's. "

"Romano's let it be. I've a cab here, waiting. " He handed her in, jumped in after her, and slammed the door, with a feeling that for anhour at least he had left his troubles outside. 

"How are you?" he asked. "What have you been doing since I saw youlast? And didn't you ever expect to see me again?"

Her eyes, in the dimness, looked very deep. 

"I knew I should, " she answered murmurously. 

The inimitable atmosphere of Romano's loosened his tongue. After shehad ordered supper, with every whit of the appetite and extravagancewhich he remembered as her chief characteristic, next to her beauty, and after each had been stimulated by a cocktail, he was consciousthat he wanted to confide in her, not so much because she was Roselle, but because she was a woman, would look soft and listen prettily. Hewanted stroking gently, patting on the back, and reassuring abouthimself. 

The slight moodiness of his expression set her suggesting confidences. "You've got a pretty bad hump, " she said caressingly. "What is it? Hasthe car slumped? Won't they have it? Or is it indigestion? You're notwhat you were when--"

She gave a quick sigh and smile, very inviting. 

"When we were touring about Canada and the States together, " hefinished. "Well, you see; when a man has come back to all he leftbehind him--"

"Did you leave much behind you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You never told _me_ anything, " she pouted. "But I'm not_asking_. I've no curiosity. The knots men tie themselves into--"

"You can laugh. "

"You make me. Aren't men silly? Tell me about--to whom you came back. "

"What does it matter?"

"It doesn't. _I_ don't care. " She drummed her fingers on thetable. "All men are like cats, home by day, and tiles by night. But ifyou'd told me you were likely to get scolded for saying how d'you doto me, I'd have been more careful of you. "

Her smile derided him. "Has someone scolded you?" she asked. 

Consommé was set before them and she began to drink it with appetite, not repeating her question till it was finished. 

"Well?" she said then, tilting her head inquiringly to one side. 

"The fact is, " he answered abruptly, "I--I've had a bad let-down. "

"Financial?"

"No. "

"Oh! Really!" she said pettishly. 

"It doesn't matter, " he remarked, rousing himself, "the thing is tomake the best of life, and by Jove! I'm going to!"

"So you come and look for me?"

"Precisely, " said Osborn. "You've been awf'ly decent to me, Roselle. Knowing you has meant a lot to me. I don't believe you'd let a fellowdown very badly, would you?" He began to feel tender towards her, andthe stupidity and avarice, which he had awhile ago begun faintly tosee in her, now receded under the spell of the lights and the hour. "If no one else has cut in since I last saw you, " he said, leaningtowards her, "you might be kind to me again. Will you? I'm lonely. I'msimply too dreadfully lonely for anything. What are you doing thisweek-end?"

"Nothing, " she said after a careful pause. 

"Come out into the country on Saturday. "

"I've a matinée. "

"Of course. Sunday then? I'd bring the car round for you early, andwe'd have a jolly day, get down to the sea somewhere. You'd likeBrighton?"

"That's a nice run, " she agreed. "Yes!"

"We could get back for dinner. Where shall we dine--Pagani's?"

She suggested, also, a supper club to which she belonged. "You'll haveto belong, too, " she said with enthusiasm. "It's the brightest thingin town. Will you, if I get someone to propose you?"

"Rather!"

He had felt dreadfully at a loose end before that evening, but now, this old intimacy again established, he was, in a restless sort ofway, happier. As they drove home, she slid her hand into his pocketlike a cunning child and said: "Osborn, I want a fiver awf'ly badly;lend me one. " And it was pleasure to him to pull out a handful ofmoney and let her pick out the gold. 

"I'll pay you back quite soon, " she said, lying; and he replied: "Youknow you won't, you naughty girl; and you know I don't want you to, either. "

She kissed him good night with the facility of her type, in thetaxicab as they crossed a dark corner. 

"Less lonely now?" she queried. 

"I don't care who denies it, " said Osborn, "a man's got to have awoman in his life; he's just got to. If one drives him. . . . "

"Poor boy!" she said in her murmurous way. 

He left her at her door and kept the cab to drive him to the nearestTube station. A strange excitement filled him as he looked ahead tothe direction in which he was drifting. What did it matter, anyway? Hewas almost in the position of a man without ties. 

"'Make your own life, '" his wife had said, "'I have all I want inmine. '"

"Well, I'll make it, " said Osborn as he journeyed homewards. 

The flat was alight, expecting his coming, though everyone was in bed. The fire had been made up, and his whisky decanter and soda siphonstood by a plate of sandwiches on the dining-room table. Marie waslooking after him infernally, defiantly well, he thought, as hesplashed whisky irritably into a tumbler. It was almost as though shewere making all she did utter for her: "See how perfectly I fulfil myduties! See how comfortable you are! You've nothing whatever togrumble about. Make your own life and I'll make mine. "

He drank his whisky, thinking of Roselle. "Here's to Sunday!" was hissilent toast. Yet it was not she who tugged tormentingly at his heart. 

But he was like a child who has been put into the corner, revengefullytearing the wallpaper. 

He wanted someone to be sorry; very, very sorry. 

There was dead silence in the flat. What a lonely place!

How queer life was!

He went sullenly to his room, where his son was sleeping peacefully. 

CHAPTER XXV

RECOMPENSE

Osborn did not tell his wife that he was going to be away from homeall Sunday. What did it matter to her? How could his plans, in anydegree, be her plans, which he understood were, for the future, to bemade independently of him? But though he asked himself this, he waswishing violently that she should care; he was hoarding up theannouncement of his Sunday absence to spring upon her and make herblench. He hardly understood his purpose himself, so vague and racked, so resentful and remorseful were his thoughts. But that was in hisheart--to surprise, alarm and worry her. If only, when he observedcasually: "I shall not be in at all to-day, " he could see her colourquicken and the jealous curiosity in her eyes! If only he could sether longing to cry:

"Why?"

And then he could reply: "I'm motoring, " and she might ask further:"Where?"

And then he could drop out casually: "I'm running down to Brighton. "

Would she inquire: "With whom?"

He rehearsed these things in spite of himself. 

On Saturday he returned to lunch. It was his old way on Saturdays, andthe afternoon was free. A soft November day breathed beneficently overLondon. In the morning, he hardly knew why, he asked the seniorpartner whether he could take out a car to-day as well as Sunday. Hedrove home to Hampstead in the blue Runaway, with its silver fittingswinking in the sun, and garaged it near by. 

He came in rather morosely, and was thoughtful over lunch, sayinglittle, till at the end of the meal he lifted his eyes to his wife'stranquil face and said suddenly:

"I brought a car home. I want to take you for a run. "

"And me, Daddy!" George shouted, but his father shook his head. 

"No, " he said doggedly, "not to-day. I just want mother. "

"I'd love to come, " said Marie readily. 

Osborn was in a strange humour, like a fractious child, and she didmore than bear with it. She ignored it altogether. As they drove outof London, the business of threading the maze of traffic kept him fromtalking even if he would, but when they had run into silence and thepeace of the country, he was still quiet, gazing straight in front ofhim, his hat jammed down over his eyes and his jaw set rigid. At lasthe heard her voice saying:

"Isn't it lovely? I wish we had a car. "

"We can have one if you like. "

He drove on fast. Sometime this afternoon, when she had tasted the joyof the day and the comfort of the car, he would tell her aboutSunday--no details, only the bleak blank fact:

"I shall be away all to-morrow; I'm motoring down to Brighton. "

They went through Epsom and Leatherhead to more rustic villagesbeyond, and he pulled up at last on the summit of a great hill, fringed on either side with trees. 

"This is a jolly place to stop for tea, " he said, breaking his longsilence. "I've got everything here. "

As he pulled out a tea basket from the back of the car she watched himcalmly. She still thought him excessively good-looking. In theirengaged days they had often escaped into the country--but on foot--andpicnicked together; each had known the other to be the most wonderfulperson in the world. Now that love had passed the memory was wellworth keeping, and she enjoyed it quietly as she sat in the car, looking down upon the back of his head bent over his task. He sat downagain, opening the basket between them, and set up the spirit stoveand lighted it for her to boil the minute kettle upon it. While shedid this, it was his turn to watch her; and presently from hismoroseness he said in a very soft voice:

"It's like old days, isn't it?"

"Only we're more gorgeous. "

"You're enjoying it?"

"Immensely. Why wouldn't you take George?"

"I didn't want him. Did you?"

"I always want him. "

"We're going to stay out till long past his bedtime. "

"Are we?"

"There's a moon. It's tophole for motoring. I'm--taking this car outagain to-morrow. "

"Are you?"

He shot a glance at her and postponed the matter. They drove on fastand far, only turning when the moon was up and stars were in the sky. They arrived again upon the summit of the great hill, the fringingtrees now black in the light of fairy whiteness, before he spoke againof what filled his brain. 

He drew up the car and, turning a look of inquiry upon him, she sawhim bending towards her, his eyes fixed upon her face. He flung out anarm along the back of the seat, behind her. 

"Marie, " he said, "I want to ask you something which you can'tanswer. "

"Why ask it, then?"

"Because I'm going to. It's this: where are we two going?"

"You're right, " she said slowly, "I can't answer that. "

"What's the meaning of this dreadful indifference? This extraordinaryindifference?"

"It's not extraordinary; if you'd only believe me it's theindifference thousands of women feel for their husbands; only in ourcase special circumstances--your absence, mother's money--have made meable to realise it. "

"Well, if thousands of women have this indifference, which you sayisn't so very extraordinary, for their husbands, what--what's the wayall these chaps win these thousands of wives back?"

"They don't. "

"But I want to win you back. Here and now, humiliating as it sounds, Ideclare I'd follow you around on my knees if--if it meant gettingyou. "

"It wouldn't. I'm very sorry. Do you think you love me?"

His hand dropped down heavily on her shoulder. 

"Yes!"

"I wish I loved you, but I don't. You--you've tired me out. I supposethat's it. "

"Very well, I'll take what you say. But I've another question. Don'tyou guess where all this is driving me?"

"Don't hold me like that, Osborn. "

"I'll only do it a few minutes. Answer my question. What do you expectof me?"

"Absolutely nothing, " she owned. 

"And you don't care what I do; where I go; what happens?"

"It's curious; I don't. Once if I thought you met, looked at, spoketo, any other woman prettier or better dressed than I could be, Isuffered torture. But now, I'm through with it. I'm sorry it should beso. "

"But that's that, " said Osborn roughly, with a brief laugh. 

He pulled her to him strongly, kissing her. 

"I love you, you know. But if you've no more use for me--"

"Well?"

"Don't expect too much of me, that's all. "

"I have told you that I expect nothing. "

"Then you ought to!" he broke out angrily. 

"I thought men appreciated complaisant wives. "

"Complaisant? It's callousness; don't-careness. You mean me tounderstand, then, that you've reckoned with everything?"

"No, I don't. I mean you to understand that I don't trouble to do anyreckoning about you at all. "

As she uttered the words she was conscious of the brutality of them;but she was speaking truth, representing those feelings which hadtaken the place of love-emotions in her heart; and what else was thereto say?

"I must say, " he said, "you're candid. "

"I want to be. If we once thoroughly understood each other we'd shakedown better and go our ways in peace. I don't want formal separation, for the children's sake. "

"Formal separation? If we had that, because you refused to live withme, desertion would be constituted and _I'd_ get the children, you know. "

"I wonder, " she said, starting. "I should fight. "

He saw the set meditation on her face under the moonlight. 

"Would there be nothing I could say?" she asked, lifting her eyes tohis. "I wonder if there'd be no countercharge ingenuity could bring?"

She did not mean what occurred to him; the things in her mind were oftoo untechnical a nature to find a hearing in the divorce courts; butas she asked her question suddenly his heart seemed to rock and tostand still for a space, while he shifted his eyes rapidly from hersand gazed straight out over the steering-wheel, down the hill, intothe blue-white moonlit distance. 

Roselle!

Who would believe his innocent tale if he stood up in that sad courtwhich recorded the most human of all frailties, and said: "Wetravelled together here and we travelled together there; and Idefrayed these expenses and those expenses; and I've kissed her; andyes, we've certainly been alone in very compromising circumstances, but I ask you to believe that technically my marital honour is intact, and that I've been true and faithful to my wife"?

The fun and the folly which had been so worth while, so like a draughtof wine on the cold journey through middle-class pauperism, nowappeared stripped of their carnival trappings. It was only folly whichstared back at him now, and she had become ugly; sickening and whollyundesirable. Folly was utter trash. He replied to Marie in a voice sostudied as to rivet her attention, asking:

"What do you mean?"

She looked at him, and knowledge came to her, born of a swiftintuition raised by his obvious difficulties. In a flash she knew; buteven while she knew, she didn't care; it was lamentable, how dead shewas. 

"Oh, " she hesitated, a faint smile crossing her lips, "I mean nothing. Please don't suppose I wish to make your private affairs mine. "

So great was his want that she should feel, should ask and demand himto give up his secrets, that he was impelled to declare:

"Marie, if you were to ask me, I'd tell you everything about this lastyear. Every little thing. There should be nothing kept back from you. "

"I don't ask, Osborn, " she replied very gently. 

Silence settled down upon them. They remained at the top of the greathill, each staring down it into the long space of unearthly clearnessand light. Automatically he withdrew his arm from her shoulders whereit had been resting heavily and dropped his hand on thesteering-wheel. After awhile he said:

"By the way, I'm going out with this car to-morrow. "

"So you told me, " she answered. 

"Had I mentioned it before?" he said thickly. "Well . . . I shall be outall day. "

"Thank you for telling me. It's considerate of you. We make a littledifference in the catering if you're out. "

He clenched his hand round the wheel. 

"I'm running down to Brighton; but I shall get back to town fordinner; late motoring's pretty cold in November. I shall be dining atPagani's--where we used to go so much, you remember. "

"I remember. I hope you'll have a fine day. "

He gave a savage twitch to the hand-brake, let in his clutch, and in amoment or two the car ran forward. 

"It beats me, " he whispered to himself. "It--just--beats--me. "

His whisper was lost in the rush of the car down the hill. His wifehad leaned back snugly under the fur rug and her profile in themoonlight was serene, neither happy nor unhappy, but absolutelycomplacent. He seemed to get a glimpse of their future, with herfigure travelling away into a far distance, divergent from his. 

[Illustration:Osborn \ / Osborn \ / \/ [Symbol: Crescent moon] Honeymoon /\ / \ Marie / \ Marie]

That was marriage. 

Two strangers met each other; fused, became of one flesh and onespirit, kindled a big hearth fire called home; travelled away fromeach other; and two strangers died. Marriage!

The next day, Sunday, he took the Runaway out of her garage early, anddrove, earlier than the hour Roselle had mentioned, to the flat whichshe shared with another woman swimming down the same stream as herselfand catching at the same straws. 

She was not dressed; when a charwoman let him in upon the Sundaymorning debris of the place, Roselle's voice rang shrill andill-tempered down the corridor. 

"Osborn, that you already? I'm not dressed; I've not breakfasted; I'mnot even awake. Just put your head in here and see. "

Following the direction of the voice, he opened a door a few inches, and put his head round. An array of women's litter confronted himstrewn on every available chair, on dressing-table and floor. Thewindows must have been closed, or nearly so; the blinds were down;there was a faint reek of perfume and spirits and stale cigarettesmoke in the room; and in two narrow tumbled beds were two women, onewhose head was still drowsy on her pillow, and Roselle, who sat up ina pale blue nightgown with a black ribbon girdled high about thewaist, and her raven hair in a mop over her eyes. 

"What a fug!" said Osborn. 

"All right, " said Roselle, "go away, then! I shall be an hourdressing. You'd better wait in the sitting-room; there's a Sundaypaper there, and a fire if the woman's lighted it. "

The woman was kindling the fire hastily and grumbling when he wentinto the sitting-room, still in its state of early morning frowsiness. The curtains had been pulled aside to let in the morning, but thewindows were not yet open, and empty liqueur glasses had not beenremoved from the table. 

"It's early for visitors, " grumbled the charwoman. "I don't reckon tocome till nine on a Sunday morning, and I start with the washing-up, and none of the rooms ain't done. "

"I don't care a straw, " said Osborn irritably, walking to a window. Heflung it up and heard the drab creature behind him shudder resentfullyat the inrush of raw air. He put his hands in his pockets, staring outand emitting a tuneless whistle. All was awry, unprofitable and staleas the cigarette smoke of which the place reeked. 

Roselle was not an hour dressing, in spite of her threat. By eleventhey were away. 

 * * * * *

It happened that the only woman Osborn had taken down to Brighton forthe day, before he took Roselle, was Marie; and harmless as theproceeding was, it affected him for a while as any first plungeaffects a man. It was like taking a first step which signifiedsomething. As they sat at lunch, he looked around him and recognisedeasily the types which he saw. Everybody was doing what he was doing;everybody was out for pleasure with a flavouring of risk in it. Powderand rouge and fur coats were like a uniform, so universal they were;and as he looked around and saw the army of pleasure-women whosecompany men purchased upon the basis on which you could purchasethings at the Stores, his would-be gaiety failed him somewhat and hewas a little weary. 

Roselle found him dull. 

They lunched, and talked, and the talk had to have a sillymeretricious flavour in it which tired him further; in the afternoonthey walked on the front; and they went to another hotel for tea. There was a blaring band and much noise and laughter from all thepleasure-people. The air was the air of a hothouse where strange, forced and unnatural exotics bloom to please strange, forced andunnatural tastes. 

Osborn did not know why he found himself so sick, and so soon, ofwhat, to the woman at his side, was the breath of her life; he wasvexed and disappointed that to him the day was so stupid and sosavourless. 

If the pleasures of men failed him, what was left?

He was thinking definitely while they drove on the much-traffickedroad back to more gaudy lights and noise, the lights and noise oftown; and he wondered how to fill the emptiness of his heart, how toappease the restless burning of his brain, and stifle before theycould cry out all the dear things his soul wanted. He looked at thewoman by his side, insatiable, greedy, stupid, nothing to allappearances but a beautiful body, and he asked himself if she could doit, or if she could not. And while he knew, right down in him, thatshe could not fulfil a fraction of his needs, he desired so much tobelieve that she could, that, in spite of his weariness with thismiscalled business of pleasure, he made hot love to her all the wayback. 

Over the dinner-table at Pagani's he advanced a farther step upon theroad which he was resolved to walk with her, failing othercompanionship. 

"Roselle, " he said, deliberately, "this isn't enough. How long are yougoing to play about with me like a beautiful pussy cat? I've been verygood, haven't I? When I think of what a good boy I've been I couldlaugh. " He laughed deeply. "You know, I could love you a lot. Whydon't you give me a trial? There isn't anyone else, is there?"

He was amazed at himself to feel jealousy hot in him as he put thequestion. 

There was no one else at the moment; but she sat thinking and playingwith the stem of her wineglass, and keeping a half-cynical, half-simpering silence. It was the veil with which she shrouded herstupidity while she debated the _pros_ and _cons_ with herself asdeliberately as she had spoken. 

"No, " she said at last, with a long, meaning look which meant nothing. "No, there is no one else, Osborn. " Her sigh ruffled the chiffons onher breast. 

"I'm going to Paris for the firm next month; it'll only be a week-end. Come, too? I'll give you a good time. "

"I'll see, " she murmured, her stupidity not dense enough to give apromise thus early. A month? A long, long while, an age, in whichother things might turn up. 

"So'll I, " he said, looking into her eyes. "I'll see that you come. "

"I haven't a rag to wear. "

"You'll have all Paris to choose from. "

"I do want a couple of hats, " she said, with the worldly yet childish_naïveté_ of her class; "I'm going to Bristol in panto--atChristmas, you know. "

"I'll come down. "

She was conscienceless, like the rest of her type. She knew, herobservation had told her long ago, that this man had ties, domesticrelations, duties; all of which mattered nothing to her. Before herwants and desires, momentary though they might be, all considerationsflew like thistledown before strong wind. 

A Nero among women, like the rest of her pleasure-sisters, she wasplanned for destruction and she went upon her way destroying. Theloudest cry could not reach her, nor the greatest sorrow touch her;nor could broken hearts block the path to the most fleeting of herdesires. 

She cared not who wept; as she had no faith, nor power for pity, soshe had no tears. 

She took Osborn Kerr into her hands. 

She said idly, to pass the time, but softly, just as if there was somemeaning behind the question: "What made you think there was anyoneelse, dear?"

He looked at her and spoke rather hoarsely, under the influence of thematter in hand: "Oh well; there might have been. Roselle, do you thinkyou can love me?"

"I could, " she answered. She assimilated the details of a near-bytoilette. "But--"

"Don't let's have any 'buts. '"

She had no subtlety, only the power of making what she said subtle;and she said:

"I don't know that loving is wise. "

Osborn was in her hands; thrown upon her mercy; a beggar for just somuch as she cared to give. He answered:

"Who cares about wisdom? It's the only thing worth doing, anyway. "

Roselle began pulling her fur coat up over her arms; it was past teno'clock; and on Sundays she went to bed early, to counteract as far asmight be the results of all the late nights during the week. 

"Take me home, " she demanded. 

In the taxicab Osborn took her into his arms and began whispering toher things to which she did not listen; had he only known it, she wasextremely sleepy from the effects of all the fresh air during the day, but triumphantly he took her inertia for the surrender for which hehad, so suddenly, craved. 

He was begging for that promise about Paris, but she would not giveit. A month? What an age it was--any good thing might happen. 

She would not let him come into the flat. "I'm too sleepy, " shedeclared. She stood before him on the inner side of her threshold, with a faint smile on her face that was as pale as magnolia flowers, and her eyelids drooping heavily; she put out a lazy hand against hischest and warded off his entry. When she sent him away, he felt onfire, from the last look of her, thus. 

CHAPTER XXVI

COMPREHENSION

When Marie had waved to her husband a stereotyped good-bye, and hadkissed schoolboy George a warm one, on Monday morning, when leisurelyquiet had come again to the flat, and as she still lingered over hernewspaper, the door bell rang and Mrs. Desmond Rokeby was admitted. 

Julia--fresh, heavenly, without a frown, without a care, without aregret--blew into Number Thirty like a Christmas rose and claspedMarie in a glad embrace. 

"It's early; it's shockingly early, but I came up with Desmond thismorning and knowing your habits--you _do_ still wheel your ownperambulator on the Heath, don't you, at eleven-thirty?--I rushed herefirst. "

"How splendid you look!"

"I feel splendid!" The two women stood at arm's length, eyeing eachother inquisitively and frankly, and Julia's ingenuous blush was thereflection of a divine dawn. 

She sat down, put her feet on the fender, loosened her furs. 

"I may stay and talk?"

"May you _not_! Oh! I'm glad to see you--it seemed as if yourhoneymoon was going to last for ever. "

"It's not over. "

"That's what we all say. "

"Don't be cynical, dear, " said the new Julia. 

Marie waved this away with a brief laugh. "I want all your news, " shedemanded. "Where are you living? What are your plans? What's the houselike, and where did you get your furniture?"

"We've got a wee house, the dearest thing, near Onslow Gardens, andwe've not finished furnishing yet; we're proceeding with it thisafternoon. I'm lunching with Desmond, and then we're going furnishingtogether. Desmond loves it. "

"And you--you're happy?"

"Oh, Marie! I was never so happy in my life. "

The baby rose from its play at the other side of the dining-room, and, tottering to her mother, begged to be lifted upon her lap. 

"I only want one of _those_, " said Julia, regarding the mite. 

"That will come, " Marie replied with a forced gaiety. 

"Desmond took me for a motoring honeymoon, " said Julia. "As you know, we had made no plans. There wasn't time. At least, _I_ hadn't, but it seemed he'd got them all mapped out in his head, the wickedthing! We had a simply lovely time, and coming home is lovelier. Iadore pottering round a house, arranging this and that, and orderingthe dinner. "

"_You_ enjoy it?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"But you hated the domestic life; you were always up in arms at thethought of marriage; you loathed even hearing of a wedding. You usedto talk of slavery . . . Don't you remember?"

"Ah, but--that was before I married. "

"Then, what do you think now?"

"It's the only life, " Julia stated with final conviction. "It's meantfor us all; we were made for it; and we're never truly happyotherwise. Desmond and I have talked over all these things, and Iunderstand a lot which I didn't understand before. "

Marie stroked the baby's curly head without replying; she held itsfeet in her hand, and caressed them, and patted its small fat legs, and coaxed a gurgle from it. But even while the baby ravished herheart, the heart was busy with the bride before her and the bridalraptures which she had known, only to lose upon the wayside where somany bridal raptures lie dead and dying; outworn and weary. Tears towhich she had long been a stranger rose in her eyes, and formed one ofthose big hurtful lumps in her throat, so that she would not trust hervoice to Julia's ears. 

That dreadful softness of longing--she had thought she would neverknow it again, never more be covered with it like a shore beneath theinward flow of the sea. 

"Desmond wants to meet Osborn, " said Julia. "He rang him up onSaturday morning, but he was engaged. Won't you and your husband cometo dinner with me and my husband one evening at Onslow Gardens?"

Julia uttered the words "my husband" with a pleasure which she couldnot secrete from the eyes of Marie. Had she not known it, too? Had shenot once delighted in saying, "My husband thinks. " . . . "My husbandsays. " . . . "My husband does. . . . " simply for the crass joy of hearingthe sound?

Julia went on:

"When can it be? Let's fix a date early. Do, there's a dear! There'llbe a peculiar joy to Desmond and me in having in our own house Osbornand you, the very two people who always told us the truth aboutmarriage, and urged us to go and do likewise!"

"The truth?" Marie echoed. 

"How wonderful it was!" Julia said sublimely. 

As Julia sat there, glowing and content, Marie recognised that she hadforgotten all the sad things she had been told and that only the gloryremained. Julia had harked back to that first year in which the youngKerrs had chanted together:

"Marriage is the only life. "

And separately:

"A woman can be an angel. "

"A man a brute? A man's a god. "

Julia continued: "To-day's Monday. We're still furnishing, of course, as I told you, but that won't matter, will it? Can you both come todinner on Thursday and see the two happiest people in the world?"

"Edifying as the sight must be--" Marie began with smiling lips. Butthen she put the baby down and, covering her face with her hands, cried bitterly: "Would the two happiest people in the world like tosee the two miserablest people in it?"

While her face was still covered, she felt Julia's arms about her, heard her disconcerted voice begging to be told. But when at lastMarie looked up, with tears salt and bitter on her cheeks, it was toreply sombrely:

"There's nothing to tell. "

"What has happened?" Julia begged. 

Marie said slowly, twisting her hands: "I felt, when I came home, after a joy-year which he didn't want to give me the remotest chanceof sharing, that--that I could never forgive him for all those yearsof losing my health and looks, those years of work and worry andchild-bearing; those years of quarrelling and grudging; those dead, drab, ugly, ordinary married years. And so. . . . "

"And so, my dear?"

"And so I have not forgiven him. He killed the love in me. There is nomore for him. "

"If there is no more, " said Julia, with a sudden instinct, "why do youcry, my dear? And why does this hurt you so?"

"To--to see you so happy, " Marie whispered up to her, "to see you andDesmond as Osborn and I once were. "

"And as you want to be again, my dear, if you only knew it. "

"It's too late for that. "

"Marie, what do you mean?"

"I told him to make his own life. I'm not a dog-in-the-manger woman, anyway. What I don't want I'll give away freely. "

"What can you mean?"

"I've given him away. " The knowledge that had come upon her in the carthat Saturday afternoon made her voice grim. "He's gone elsewhere, "she said; "I feel it; I know it. A wife can sense these things as abarometer senses rain. "

"Oh, Marie!" Julia whispered, and for a while there was silence in theroom, broken only by the chuckles of the baby-girl. Both women lookeddown, at the sound, upon the fluffy head and Julia asked, still in abated whisper:

"What do you think you'll do?"

"Nothing, " said Marie, "above all, nothing. The children will keep usunder the same roof. We shall be like thousands of other marriedpeople, privately free; publicly tied up tight together in the samedear old knot. "

Her brief laugh trembled. 

"Marie, you know you think it _is_ a dear old knot. "

Marie did not reply. After awhile she said:

"We're not coming to dinner with you for a very long while. Thismorning I've come nearer hating you, Julia, than I've ever done in ourlives. I want to hate you because you're so happy; because you've gotthe love which I want but can never have again. "

"Are you sure of that?"

"Sure, my dear? Sure as the world. You can't have that kind of lovewithout giving a return, and I've none to give. It's dead; gone; driedup. I don't know where it is. But perhaps there's a root of it leftsomewhere--enough to make me envy you. "

Ann the maid entered to fetch the baby to be dressed for outdoors, andJulia received the hint sorrowfully. 

"Isn't there anything Desmond and I could do?" she asked, as she stoodup and muffled her furs about her throat. 

"There's nothing anyone can do. "

"I wanted to talk about a lot of things--ask you about your fortunes, and everything, darling; but this has driven it all clean out of myhead. "

"Our fortunes are on the upgrade, thanks, Julia. Never again will Ispoil my hands and let my teeth and hair go; it's all over--that partof it. "

Julia kissed Marie very tenderly, as she used to do. "I shall comeagain soon, " she called with an anxious vivacity, as she waved hermuff in a good-bye signal from a bend in the cold grey stairs. 

But Marie went in again very quickly and shut the door. She stood withher hands clenched and her breast heaving, tears running uncheckeddown her cheeks. 

She stood on tiptoe to peer into the glass over the mantel, and thestorm in her face quickened the storm in her heart. Raging jealousyentered and possessed her. It whirled about like a tornado, scatteringbefore it all that was orderly, that was lesser and weaker thanitself. Marie Kerr was taken up in the grip of it, and driven alongupon a headlong course which she could not pause to consider. 

As she looked at herself in the glass, she cried aloud furiously: "Noone shall ever take what is mine!"

Little pulses began to hammer in her, which had not so hammered sinceOsborn started upon his joy-year. No more could she bear contemplationof Julia and her delight. She ran along the corridor to her room, calling to the maid:

"You'll have to take baby out this morning; and do the shopping; and, oh! _everything_. I've got to go out, and I don't know when I'llbe back. "

With the door of the pink bedroom shut upon her, she dressed herselfwith trembling speed. Her new black velvet suit, her furs, herviolets, her amethyst earrings, her silk stockings, and suede shoesand white gloves! Thank God for clothes when a woman was out upon thechase!

She whispered with an anger that was fiendish; that rose from its dustright back from the age of barbarism, and came at her call:

"No one shall take what is mine!"

She swept money lavishly into her bag; no expenses of locomotion weregoing to stand in her way. She flew down the cold grey stairs and outinto the street. Because the Tube would be quicker than a cab, shetravelled upon it; and people looked at her fevered cheeks, hershining eyes, wondering what drove this lovely woman, and upon whaterrand. Excitement beautified her and gave to her a transcendentquality which drew all eyes. 

Uplifted as she was, yet she noticed this homage, and her woman's soulleapt, exulting. It was like applause; like a great voice encouraging, cheering her on. It gave her pride and the supreme vanity to pursueher way. 

She left the Tube at Charing Cross, and drove in a taxicab to herhusband's place of business. One or two urbane men, strangers to her, hurried forward as she alighted from the cab, inquiring her pleasure, and she said, smiling: "I want my husband; I'm Mrs. Kerr. "

As she said "My husband, " delight took her, absurdly like Julia's. Shechecked a laugh at it. 

Osborn had gone out to lunch. 

"Did they know where?"

"I heard him telephone, booking a table for two at the Royal Red, " oneof the men said, and bit off his words suddenly as he caught thehumorous warning look of the other. The look said: "We're all thesame; don't get the poor fellow into trouble. "

She understood it and again checked a laugh. She thanked them, jumpedinto the taxicab, and as the two men hurried after her, vying witheach other as to which should do her the service of closing the door, she leaned forward and said buoyantly:

"Yes, you've given my husband away badly! The table _wasn't_ forme! Tell the driver to go to the Royal Red. "

She could joke about the matter, so complete she felt her power to be. She had in her, strong and vital, an irresistible feeling ofachievements to come, as if nothing in the world could defeat herpurpose, nor gainsay her will; it was like an inspiration which cannotbe wrong. And as she entered the restaurant, and swept her eyes overthe ground floor, she found at once those whom she looked for--herhusband and the other woman. 

As she went forward slowly, calm now, confident and at ease, sheremembered, with a rising and fierce sense of satisfaction, the ravenhair, the high shoulders and white face, the attractive insolence ofher rival. They had been before upon the same battle-ground; but nowthe battle was level; nay, it was more than level; it waxed in favourof the wife, who, with every weapon to her hand, advanced leisurely toemploy them against the woman who had none save that of her stupidbeauty, allied to the strategy of her greed. 

Marie came right up and stood by their table before Osborn perceivedher; then she smiled. 

She stepped into the breach of silence promptly, with sweet speech. 

"I hope, " she said, "I'm not intruding? But I'm shopping, and I wastold you had come here, and I wanted lunch, so I followed. Dointroduce me to this lady and give me some. "

He stammered, somehow:

"Miss Dates, my wife. "

Marie sat down. 

"Where are you?" she said, glancing at the menu. "The roast--I'll joinyou there. Do tell me I'm not intruding, both of you. I am consciousof this being a horrible thing to do and I want to be reassured. "

"Delighted to see you, " Roselle chimed glibly, sweeping the wife witha look of comprehending fury to which even her slug nature could rouseitself upon such an occasion. 

"If you'd rung me up, dear, " said Osborn to his wife, "I should havebeen charmed to take you anywhere you liked. "

"And broken your appointment with me!" Roselle supplied suddenly, andthe gage was down between the two women. 

Roselle Dates eyed the wife warily and feared her. And the measure ofher hate matched that of her fear. Leaning forward, her white chin onher white hands, she cooed across the table:

"But I'd have forgiven him, Mrs. Kerr, if it was only for the sake ofthe jolly time he gave me yesterday. "

"At Brighton?" Marie smiled across at Osborn. 

He nodded. "I told you I was going. "

"Do you like the car?" Marie asked Roselle sweetly. 

"She's a duck, " said the other woman, her eyes snapping, "but ofcourse yesterday wasn't my first acquaintance with her. I know herevery trick well. When we were in New York people were so struck byher neatness in traffic. "

Osborn started involuntarily, exclaiming as involuntarily:

"Roselle!"

"What?" she asked, turning a stare upon him. 

He fidgeted uncomfortably. "Don't be an ass, " he said. "Marie--"

"What, dear?" asked his wife. 

Again he fidgeted. "When Miss Dates mentions being in New York--" hebegan. 

"And Chicago and all through Canada from Montreal to the West, " saidRoselle, continuing upon the breakneck course she seemed to havechosen in a moment. 

"She means to tell you, " said Osborn doggedly, "that she was doing aconcert tour which coincided almost, though not quite, with mymovements, and that having met her on board, we--we did some motoringtogether. "

Breathless, he awaited the working of the most amazing situation inwhich he had ever found himself, and he had not long to wait. He didnot know how much his wife knew nor what might be her summing up; hedid not know that during the night Roselle had slept upon the problemof himself and had concluded he was too good to lose; he did notunderstand in the least what motives were actuating these two women;the flaming and insolent resentment of Roselle at the other's merepresence; the calm and pretty pose of his wife. He gazed at each inembarrassed bewilderment, and Roselle, her chin still on her palms, and her eyes bright and stony, commented on his explanation. Shedrawled:

"Osborn, you're a liar. Your wife knows as well as I do that she coulddivorce you to-morrow. "

"But Miss Dates would be a fool, which I am sure she is not, " said thewife's pretty voice, "if she imagines I would do it. "

Husband and wife looked at each other across the table, and thequestion in the eyes of one, the answer in the eyes of the other, werenaked and unashamed. They could be read by the woman between them. Andregardless of her presence, they asked and answered each other ineager words. 

"Marie, do you want me?"

"Yes; I want you. "

Osborn turned to Roselle Dates. He turned to her as to somethingtiresome, hindering the true business of the hour. "Roselle, " he saidcrisply, "my wife wishes to lunch with me alone. Will you go; or shallwe?"

"I'll go, " she replied very slowly, "but I shall expect some sort ofexplanation. "

He stood up and put on her coat and their eyes were almost level, looking right into each other's. 

"An explanation? You won't get it, " he whispered back. 

"It's due to me. You're a rotter. "

"There's nothing due to you, " he replied with a sudden air of reliefat the discovery. 

An abounding idea of happiness to come filled him as he moved besideRoselle down the crowded restaurant. As they went he said: "It's allover; I'm a fool no longer. You understand there's only one woman inthe world for me and that's my wife. And since she has some use for meagain . . . Good-bye!"

He held out his hand, but she refused it angrily. She stood, bitingher lip, tapping her foot, her head averted, upon the kerb; herattitude of pique was amusingly familiar to him; often it had gainedfor her the gratification of some petulant desire; but now all that hewanted was to hurry back to the table they had left. 

There were real things; and trash; well defined. 

"Taxi!" he said in a ringing voice to the commissionaire. 

"Where are you going, Roselle?"

"Home, " she answered venomously. 

He put her in, paid the driver and gave the direction. "I'm sorry youhad not quite finished your lunch, " he said perfunctorily, looking in. 

She bit her lip and averted her head; but she was aware, in spite ofher refusal to see, or hear, or speak to him, that before her cab hadstarted he was returning back with a swift step into the restaurant. 

There sat the wife who held all the cards--as wives do if they willonly play them aright. She was not smiling, nor exultant, nor blatantover it, but triumph was in every line of her as she waited there, slender, lovely, and sartorially exquisite. From the tip of her shoeto the crown of her hat she was conquest. 

He sat down, thinking over words to say, and she looked at himcritically, yet eagerly, and waited for him to speak. 

He cleared his throat. 

"Marie, " he said, "hang lunch--until you understand me. This hasbeen an extraordinary quarter of an hour. I didn't know you had itin you. You women--you have me fairly beat. I just want--I hope--Ilong for you to believe me, when I tell you that rot she talkedabout divorce . . . That is to say, I swear to you, that, except oncircumstantial evidence, you wouldn't have the ghost of a case. But, Marie, on circumstantial evidence, I--I don't know that a judge andjury wouldn't convict me. "

His wife was still looking at him critically, eagerly; and he met hereyes full, and saw, down in the depths wherein had been his delight, agreat faith. 

She believed him. 

He tingled with joy. "I've been a fool, " he weighed out slowly. "Weare; and we--we want looking after, you know. We can't stand our wivesforsaking us. We ask a lot of you, I suppose. Yes, it's a lot. "

"Well, " she murmured, "we've always got it to give. We're made thatway. "

"Not all of you, " he denied, with a fleeting thought of Roselle. 

"Tell me, " Marie asked, "what were you and she talking of so earnestlywhen I came in? It won't matter anyway--but I'm just curious to know. "

"Shall I tell you?"

"I've asked. "

He answered very slowly, as if still weighing his words: "We weretalking of a coming trip I have to make to Paris; I was asking her ifshe wouldn't come, too. "

A little colour rose in his wife's face. 

"I'll come instead, " she said clearly. 

 * * * * *

Osborn Kerr let himself into No. 30, Welham Mansions, laden withpackages. He knew not what thank-offerings to make to heaven, so hemade them to his family. Flowers and chocolate boxes hung about him. 

He whistled gaily. 

Only three hours ago he had parted from her after that memorable lunchand, now, here he was again with her in the place called home. 

At the sound of his key she came out of her bedroom, dressed fordinner. The flat was quiet save for homely sounds from the kitchen. Osborn took his wife in his arms and kissed her. He statedexuberantly: "I came home early; I just had to. "

They went into the sitting-room hand in hand, and she sat down on thechesterfield before the fire. He did not want to sit down; he was toohappy and restless and urgent. Now and again he hung over the back ofthe couch, to caress her, or whisper love words in her ear, and nowand again he walked about touching this or that familiar object andfinding new attractions in each. It was like the first coming to thatflat when the very taps over the sink had been superior to all othertaps under the rosy flicker of the new-kindled fire of love. 

What an evening it was! He kept saying, breaking away from some otherthing, to say it: "I can't think this is all true. I can't think thatyou are just you, and I am just I, all over again. And that we'rereally going to be the two happiest souls on earth!"

He came to Grannie Amber's old rosewood piano and stood touching itreverently. "There's a little thing I heard, " he exclaimed suddenly, "that I'd like to sing to you. It's called 'Please, ' and it's justwhat I'm saying to you all the time. "

He sat down to vamp an odd accompaniment indifferently, but Marie wasnot listening for the accompaniment. It was his voice which shewanted, and gave her ears to hear; and he sang:

 "Oh, Heart-of-all-the-World to me, I love you more than best; Then lie so gently in my arms And droop your head and rest. My kisses on your dark, dark hair Nor Time nor tears shall grey; _But the little wandering, laughing loves They flower beside the way. _

 "Slender and straight you came to me, And straight the path you trod; Your faithfulness was more than faith, Like the faithfulness of God. I cannot pay you all I owe, Though what I owe I pay: _But the little wandering, laughing loves They flower beside the way. _

 "So take my life, who gave me all, Between your so small hands, With the blind, untaught, unfaltering touch A woman understands; And save me, since I would be saved, And do not let me stray _With the little wandering, laughing loves That flower beside the way. _"

"That is the husband's 'Please, '" said Osborn, humbly. 

She stood up erect, and cried out: "No one shall take what is mine!"

The door opened, and the maid stood there, saying quietly: "Dinner isserved, ma'am. "

They went in hand in hand, regardless of her. They sat down and lookedat each other under pink candle-shades. The golden-brown curtains weredrawn evenly down the whole length of the much-windowed wall, andsplashed rich colour against the prevailing cream. The wedding-presentsilver glittered upon the white cloth. What a dear room it was! Howhappily appointed and magically ordered!

He adored, across the space, the most darling woman that heaven everspared to make joy for a mortal man. And she, returning his look withthe same verdant wonder at the beauty of all things, saw before herhusband and lover; he whom she had chosen to mate with; he who hadtaught her the beginning of joy; the finest man in the world.