osed
her irrevocably. She would never get away from this place, the prison
of home. Day in, day out, as Osborn said, it would be the same. The
man might come and go at will, the woman had forged her fetters.

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

Marie was hardening. She did not cry. After a while she rose and
cleared 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 resume
her thinking.

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

She knew women whose husbands invariably went out at night, as soon as
they had fed. What did these women really think of their men? What did
these men really think of their women? How much did each know of the
other? At what stage in these varied married lives did the wife become
merely a servitor, to serve or order the serving of her husband's
dinner, 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. She
schooled herself to sleep, knowing that during the night the baby
would make his demands, and she fell asleep quickly. She did not hear
Osborn come in. He looked about the flat for her before going to his
dressing-room, and, not finding her, said to himself wilfully:
"Marie's sulking; she wouldn't wait up. Does she always expect a
fellow to stay at home?"

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

"You could afford to marry, Desmond."

"What's the standard?"

"Being able to keep servants," said Osborn harshly. "You marry the
girl you love, a pretty girl you're proud to take about, and she can't
come out to dine with you; she can't move from home; babies, they cry
all 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 sentimental
errand, influenced by she did not know what; but she guessed it was
the youth in the air. It made her think of the youngest thing she
knew, and that was Marie's baby, and of what she could do for it; and