“Yes, I’d like another room.”

“You shall have what you like, darling.”

He put an arm round her shoulders, drawing her face to his.  “You know
I’d like to give you the world!”

She was silent.

He kissed her cheek, holding her against him.  “I must show you what
I’ve brought as soon as I unpack.  I got you some things in the Bon
Marche—­I think you’ll like them.”

“I’m sure to.”

“Tell me what you’ve been doing.  I want to hear all about you,” he said persistently.

“There’s very little to tell.  I’ve been able to go out a great deal more lately; and I’ve been resting and reading while I had the opportunity.  I took the children to the sea in the summer.  Ann went with us, so I was very free and had long walks and swims.  It was delightful.”

“And you’ve missed me?” he asked quickly.  “I don’t hear anything about that.”

“We have all missed you.”

Her assurance left him vaguely unsatisfied.  She drew away from him with a sidelong glance, half sad, half ribald, as if she knew and was regretfully amused at what he was thinking.  She leaned over the table, cake knife in hand.

“Have some of this iced cake, Osborn?  Bought specially for you.”

For a while that pleased and appeased him.  He asked more casually for news, and she told him of Rokeby’s and Julia’s surprise wedding.

He sat back, astonished, exclaiming: 

“Good heavens!  How unsuitably people marry!”

“They do, don’t they?”

The noise in the next room had subsided; and presently the handle of the sitting-room door turned quietly, and three inquiring faces looked in, Minna holding the baby steady.

Over Marie’s face there came a change.  From its half-cold inconsequence and restraint, it warmed and lighted, as her hands went out eagerly.

“Come along, chicks,” she said; and then, turning to her husband, she added quickly:  “If you don’t mind?  I always read to them before bedtime.  Do you mind?”

“Why should I, darling?” he said, surprised.

The three children, encouraged, came forward.  George had the chosen book under his arm and, opening it at a favourite story, he laid it on his mother’s knee.  Nursing the baby and with Minna snuggled into her other arm, she prepared to read.

“Come and sit on my knee, old chap,” Osborn whispered to George.

The child came dutifully, but his attention was for his mother.  She began to read in her light, clear voice, and for some while that was the only sound in the room; the man and the three children listened, as if entranced.  During the progress of the reading Ann came in without interrupting and took the baby away to bed.

A quarter of an hour later it was Minna’s turn, and only George remained; he was eager to tell his mother of the day’s experiences at school; clambering down from his father’s lap he went to her, and, with an arm flung about her neck, began an involved account.