little spirit stove and saucepan, the unlucky jingle
of a spoon against the bottle, so that Osborn began to mutter
drowsily: "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 as
these; in the nights his nerves were frayed; at the breakfast-table he
showed 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 and
expense! Expense and worry! Such is life!"

In the evenings she was very subdued; she was losing her life and
light; he did not know that during the day, after such display of his
irritation, she cried herself sick. He asked her to come out to dinner
one evening; he said:

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

But she could not.

"Baby," she said, hesitating.

Osborn looked at her in silence. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, after a
while, "aren't we ever to have our evenings out, then? Shall you
always 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 in
the night, so she now longed to cry: "It's harder on me than you! Do
you think I don't _want_ ever to go out? Do you think I don't
often long to go into the West End and look at the shops, or do a
matinee 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 and
simple?" Osborn demanded.

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

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

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

It was Osborn's turn to look at her; he wondered just what she meant
by 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 he
had ever gone out after dinner at home. For some while after he had
left Marie remained alone at the table, staring before her. The small
dining-room was still charming in the candlelight, but it took on a
new aspect for her. The cream walls and golden-brown curtains encl