But although the most darling dolly home waited for them in a suburb of the great city where Osborn was to work away his young life like other men, although each saw and recognised the promise of the sunset, they were sad at leaving the palace which, for so short a time, they had made-believe was theirs.  A reason was present in the mind of each, though, an irrefutable, hard-and-fast reason, why the stay could not be prolonged, even though Osborn might beg, with success, for another week’s holiday.  Each knew what the now mutual purse held; each, day by day, had privately been adding the price of the half-bottle, and the hire of the car, to the sum of “everything inclusive.”  Each had, of necessity, a hard young head.

So they went home very punctually.

The hall-porter at the flats knew how newly married they were.  So there was a smile upon the face of the tiger and fires burning in Number Thirty; and he carried up the luggage with a kind alacrity; for newly married people were his prey.  They thanked him profusely, touched by his native charm, and they gave him five shillings.

They sat down and looked at each other.

“I think it is lovely to be at home,” said Marie.

“There’s a comfort about one’s own place,” Osborn answered, “that you don’t get anywhere else.”

The hall-porter had even wound up the clocks, which Mrs. Amber and Julia had brought, among other wedding presents, a day or two before, and now four strokes sounded from a silvery-voiced pet of a timepiece on the mantelshelf.  The owners looked at it, arrested and pleased.

“It is really the prettiest clock I have ever seen,” said Marie.

“I like the tone,” said Osborn, “I can’t bear a harsh clock.  Darling, that’s four.  You want tea.  I’ll get it.”

“We’ll both get it.”

“But you’re tired with travelling, pretty cat.  You’ll just sit there and I’ll take your boots off and unpack your slippers; and I’ll make your tea.”

Marie let Osborn do all this, and he enjoyed his activity for her sake as much as she enjoyed her inactivity.  He unpinned her hat, took off her coat as a nurse removes a child’s coat, kneeled down to unlace her boots, kissed each slim instep, and carried all the things neatly away to their bedroom.  Joyfully he unlocked the suit-case where he knew her slippers reposed, for had he not packed them himself, for her, that morning?  He returned to the sitting-room and put them on.

“Mrs. Osborn Kerr at home!” he cried, standing to look down upon her.

“I do want my tea!” said Marie.

“I’ll get it now, darling.  You sit still.  I adore waiting upon you,” said Osborn, hurrying away.

It was fine to be in his own place, with his own wife, with the world shut out and snubbed.  As Osborn strode along the short and narrow corridor to the kitchen he admired everything he saw.  He confirmed his own good taste and Marie’s.  The cream walls with black and white etchings—­more wedding presents—­upon them, and the strip of plain rose felt along the floor, could not be bettered.  The kitchen was a spotless little place, up-to-date in the matter of cupboards.  Everything was as up-to-date as he and Marie were.  There was nothing equal to this fresh and modern comfort.