They left the perambulator in the courtyard and made a slow journey up the stairs to her nice flat on the first floor.  That flat, which had seemed so small and old-fashioned to the girl Marie, appeared as a haven of refuge and comfort to the woman.  It was so warm, so quiet and still.  When they arrived there, Grannie Amber was comfortably sewing by her cosy fire, while her charwoman got through the work there was to do.  She was surprised and somewhat uneasy to see her daughter so early, but she bustled about to settle them comfortably, taking the baby upon her lap, and bringing out queer old games from cunning hiding-places for the others, as grannies do.

When George and the three-year-old were presumably absorbed, she lifted an anxious, cautionary eyebrow at Marie, and waited to hear the news.

“Osborn’s gone away for a year, mother,” Marie announced quietly.

Mrs. Amber did not reply for a few moments, but her elderly face flushed with red and her eyes with tears; she was so nonplussed that she 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 the firm’s travellers,” said Marie steadily.  “He only knew yesterday, and had to start at ten this morning, so you may guess we’ve been very busy.  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; and the salary is five hundred a year and a good commission and very generous expenses.”

She was glad to have got it all out almost at a breath, without a sign of a breakdown; and the eyes of Grannie Amber, who was not meant to understand and knew better than to show she did, kindled at her daughter’s courage.

“I am so sorry, duck,” she murmured sympathetically.  “You’ll both have felt the parting very much; but it’ll be a splendid holiday for Osborn; and—­and I’m not sure whether it won’t be a splendid holiday for 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’t it, 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 too much 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 a charwoman.  She’s there now.  It did seem queer.”