he; you
don't care if the baby goes out or stays in--if _I_ go out or
stay in. It's your child, isn't it? It's not all _my_ fault we
had 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 ashamed
of yourself--a woman--a _woman_ suggesting she doesn't want a
baby!"

"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 have
thought impossible to say; but there was a keen triumph in the
ice-coldness. She had silenced him.

"Isn't married life ugly?" she asked. "Isn't it little and mean and
sordid and stingy and unjust? You create a condition which will tie me
to 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 help
anything? Do you think I don't _want_ theatres and to go out to
dinner with you as I used to? The baby's yours, isn't he, as well as
mine?"

"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 and
retreat--cried aloud to her.

She was afraid of herself.

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

She spoke out into the stillness, shocked, appealing, still trembling
with 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 the
building into the windy street, she met Desmond Rokeby about to enter.
Her handsome face was grim beneath her veil and her eyes snapped. As
she pulled up short and stood in Rokeby's path, she expressed to him
the 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, "from
an arch-enemy! You _are_ the enemy of us all, aren't you? Is
there 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 an