the lines had smoothed from her face, her neck had grown plump again, and the stories of modern thought, of modern love and its ways, had stimulated her brain once more to thoughts of its own.  She loved the sitting-room better than she had loved it even when it was first furnished; it was now peculiarly her own.  When she thought of Osborn’s return, as she did now and then with a curious mixture of feelings, she knew, half-guiltily, that somehow she would grudge him a share in those pleasant evenings by the fire.

Marie sat down to wait for Julia and Desmond, and, taking up her half-finished novel, put her silk-stockinged feet on the fender, leaned back, and opened the book at the place where she had left the story.  It was a love story, and as she read she thought:  “How well I know this phase! and that phase!... but we will just see what happens after they’re married.”  Her thought was not bitter, only interested and curious, because her own hurt was over, and a wisdom, a contentment, had come.

Julia and Desmond arrived together, much against Julia’s will; and they all sat down in the pretty pale room, while the maid drew the curtains upon the gathering dusk and switched on the light.

They sat and talked of trivial things, waiting for the serving of dinner to be announced; and Marie remembered how often, in the past years, she had longed to sit there comfortably, thus till a well-trained servant should open the door noiselessly and say:  “Dinner is served, ma’am.”

Now it happened every night.

They went in to a well-ordered dinner; there was a pleasant peace and harmony in the flat; and as Rokeby looked at Marie’s face, which had won back all its old prettiness, as well as attaining the strength of the woman who has suffered, he did not marvel, but he was a little sad.  And he wondered slightly just what was going to happen to Osborn when he came home.  But Julia, as she looked at Marie, was triumphant; she did not wonder what was going to happen to Osborn; she thought she knew.  And all dinner she tried to hurl tiny defiances into Rokeby’s teeth, asking with sparkling malice: 

“Isn’t Marie looking her own self again?  Isn’t it lovely to see her?  Doesn’t grass-widowhood suit her?  Isn’t it a screaming success?”

Rokeby knew what Julia meant, but his patience was invincible.

There was a piano in the flat now; it had been Grannie Amber’s, and was old, but still it fulfilled its purpose of a musical instrument.  It stood in the sitting-room, across one of the corners by the fire, and after dinner Marie played and Julia sang; and when she refused to sing more, it was Desmond’s turn.  He looked through Marie’s pile of music, selected a song, and sat down to play his own accompaniment with a light and beautiful touch which came as a surprise to the listening women, who knew nothing of his drawing-room talents.  He went from song to song, and all at once Marie, transferring her gaze from contemplative dreams, saw Julia’s face.  Julia leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, her chin in her palms, looking at the man at the piano, and in her eyes ran the old tale, and her red lips smiled and her breast heaved.  But she became conscious of Marie’s look, and sitting up sharply, drew, as it were, a blind down over the light.