“Jolly nice,” he commented on the stockings, “but, please, give me my tea now.”

He smiled at her a lazy, autocratic smile.  All this flat and the people in it were his, and he would not have changed it for a throne.  He thought again, though in a more mature fashion, much as he used to do in the first married year, how good it was to come in and shut your own door upon a snubbed world.

She answered the smile by one faint and chilly and reposeful.  Leaning forward she began to busy herself with the tea things.  The sugar tongs poised:  “Let’s see,” she cogitated, “it was two lumps, wasn’t it?”

He assented, surprised.  “Time I came home,” he said, affecting to grumble lightly.

“What do you think of the children?” she asked.  “I suppose you find them grown?  Did they remember you?”

“Yes, of course.  I should think they did!”

“Muffin, Osborn?”

“Thank you, darling.  I say,” he smiled with gratification, “you look as though you’d all done yourselves pretty well while I’ve been away.  This is cosy.”

He indicated the tea table.

“Of course, after mother’s death—­”

“I was awf’ly sorry, Marie.  I’m afraid I wrote rather a brief letter about it; life was rather a rush, you know.”

“It didn’t matter.  I was going to say, that after her death, I found myself quite well off, comparatively.”

“You didn’t tell me much.”

“No.  Well, you didn’t ask much.  Surely, I answered all your questions?”

He remembered uncomfortably the many months of his abstraction with Roselle; she had occupied his thoughts for a while almost to the exclusion of everything else.

“I expect you did, dearest.”

“However, I’m going into accounts with you presently, and then you’ll know everything.”

“Overspent yourself?” he smiled complacently, with the knowledge of that thousand pounds backing him.  “Want money to go on with?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t want anything, thanks.”

The thought was to her like a bulwark; it was a thought which thousands of wives would have loved to possess.  It somehow completed her sense of detachment from him.  She puzzled him.

“How long have you had a maid?” he asked.  “I must say I was awf’ly surprised when what’s—­her—­name—­Ann—­opened the door to me.”

“Let’s see,” she considered, wrinkling her brows, “I’ve had her for six months.  Before that I had a woman in to do the rough work.”

“Well, if you could manage it—­”

“I managed it, and kept quite within our income, thank you, Osborn.”

“I must say it’s very jolly to have you all to myself like this.  We always used to talk of what we’d do when my ship came home, and now here she is!”

“Poor Osborn!  You must be glad.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course I am.”

“We’ll have a bigger flat; it’s rather a crowd here, isn’t it?”