“I’ve only been in ten minutes, and I was going to settle down to a lonely evening.  I’m awf’ly glad to have you, Marie darling.  If Mr. Rokeby’s going to stay he’ll have to be useful.  I’m afraid you find me almost deshabillee, but I’m one of these sloppy bachelors, as you know.”

But Julia had a taut way of putting on even a silk kimono, and she could not have been sloppy had she tried; her lines were too fine and clean.

The two women went away to Julia’s bedroom, a little box like a furnisher’s model, and there Julia gleaned Marie’s news.  But far from giving unmitigated sympathy, she was almost crudely congratulatory.

“It’s what most wives of your standing want badly.  A year off.  A year to go to some theatres, to find their own minds again; to look after their wardrobes, and thread all the ribbons in their cammies that they’ve been too busy to thread for ages.  It’s no good coming to me for pity.  I’m not sorry for you.”

“I—­I’m not sure that I want you to be.  I see what you mean.  But—­”

“But?”

“Last night, when I knew, I was just heartbroken.  I don’t know when I’ve cried as I did.  For a while I thought I’d just have to die.”

“You won’t die.  You’ll renovate yourself; you’ll get new feathers, like a bird in spring.”

Marie looked slowly at Julia.

“I know.”

Julia began to smile, first a smile of inquiry, then of delight.  “’Rah! ’rah!” she screamed softly; “we’ll have Marie pretty again.”

Marie took off her hat and coat and began to fluff her crushed hair.

“See my grey hairs, though, Julia?”

“They’re nothing.”

“My teeth, of course, haven’t been touched since I was married.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford that, but I’ll try.”

“Marie,” said Julia, at an inexplicable tangent, “for heaven’s sake why bring Desmond Rokeby here?”

“Oh, do you mind, dear?  He brought me.”

“Mind!” said Julia, now inexplicably tart, “I don’t mind!  Why should I mind anything about him?  Only—­”

“Only?”

“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter!  Let’s all be jolly, if he’s got to stay.”

It was one of those gay, rowdy, delightful, laughing evenings which can happen sometimes.  They were all three in the minute kitchen together, Desmond taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves to cook, and excellently he cooked, too.  Julia tied an apron around him, and Marie twisted up a cook’s cap from grease-proof paper, and they laughed like people who have discovered the finest jokes in the world.  There was no care; there was no worry; no time-table.  No Jove-like husband, no fretting, asking wife, no shades of grocers and butchers had a place there.  It was a great evening.  No one was married.  Everyone was young.  Oh! it was jolly! jolly! jolly!  All one wished—­if one stopped to wish at all—­was that it might never end.

But the end was at 9.30, punctual to the stroke of Marie’s conscience.  At No. 30 Welham Mansions, Hampstead, were three little sleepers who depended upon her for all they needed in the world, and over them watched a tired old grannie who would fain go home to bed.  Marie left the others suddenly, in case the strength of her resolution should fail her, crying, as she ran out: