“I ought not to hinder you,” said Marie; and, as she said it, there came 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 like this, and how pleased and flattered they were to be thus hindered.  She wished she could feel as sure of herself and her power to charm without the least exertion as she was then.  She went on:  “I really hardly know why I came, but I was in town; and I thought you’d like to hear 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 to ring me up yesterday and give me an inkling.  So you’ve really sent him off, have you?”

“Yes; this morning, at ten.”

Rokeby felt for his words carefully, in view of what he saw in her face.

“It must have been a rush for both of you.”

“It was.  But things are better like that.  There isn’t so much time to think.”

“No,” said Rokeby.

“If I’d known he’d told you, I wouldn’t have come round to hinder you this 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 the whole game?”

She sat there telling him; the fire flushed her face so that its wanness disappeared; and in their wonder and bewilderment her eyes were big and solemn like a child’s.  But the composure to which she had won was complete.

“It will be a splendid holiday for him,” she finished.  “He hasn’t had one since we were married.  Of course, we’ve been nearly every year to the same rooms at Littlehampton, but with children it’s different.  You can hardly call it a holiday.”

“You can’t, I should think.”

She smiled seriously and passed it by.  “He was like a schoolboy let out 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 about money any more for a whole year, and—­and to get away.”

“Yes,” said Rokeby gravely, “yes.  And how are you going to celebrate your holiday, Mrs. Kerr?”

She looked at him quickly.  A smile broke round her lips.  “Do you know,” she dared, as if shocked at herself, “last night I was heartbroken; this morning I was bitter; this afternoon I came up to town 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’ve got 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 this evening 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 about this evening, and I was determined not to go home till ten o’clock.  I don’t know why, but if I can make myself stay right away on my own pleasure till then it will be like breaking a spell.  But why I’m talking like this to you I don’t know.  You’ll think me mad.”