She stood a dressing-table length away, fumbling with the hooks, her eyes fixed on him.

“I have lots of things to say to you,” she began suddenly.

“Say them to-morrow,” he replied in his old way.

“No,” she said, “they have to be said to-night—­not this minute, perhaps, but presently.”

She was in Osborn’s arms again, and he was touching her throat, her hair, and the velvet texture of her cheek.

“You’ve got fatter again,” he was saying delightedly; “you look just like the little girl I married, only there’s something bigger about you; firmer.  There’s no doubt marriage stiffens a woman up.  That’s it, isn’t it?  You’re sure of yourself.”

She gazed full into his eyes.  “Yes.  I’m sure of myself; absolutely sure.”

“You always had ripping hair; but I think it’s got thicker, hasn’t it?  It’s springy, sort of electric.”

“It used to be thick; and then it was thin; and now it’s thick again, I think.”

“You do it differently.”

“One changes with the styles.”

“You would, you up-to-date thing.  Now, you’re going to look at these souvenirs of Paris, aren’t you?”

He held her close to his side, while he showed her what he had chosen; the pale-pink collars—­“You were always gone on pink, weren’t you?” he asked—­the silk stockings and the vanity garters.  With clumsy fingers he tried to adjust the hair-band.

“Let me do it,” she protested, “if you really want me to wear it.”

“Well, don’t you want to?” he asked, a little hurt.

“I’d love to, if I may put it on properly.  It’s sweet.”

“It makes you look awf’ly French!”

“Does that improve me?”

“You don’t want improving.”

He sat down by the dressing-table, while she stood, fixing the glittering circle round her hair with clever fingers.  He kept his hand on her waist and, leaning forward, looked at her in the glass.  She had a lithe naturalness, a slim strength, which newly arrested his admiration.  Struck by the charm of his own wife, he missed no detail of her appearance.  She had dressed to please herself with a true woman’s delight in dessous; and he was quick to notice the mauve gleam of ribbon shoulder straps under the filmy black of her bodice, which gave the sombre gown a charming colour-note; her sleeves, transparent, long, and braceleted round the wrists with black velvet bands, showed the whole length of her white arms; in her ears amethyst earrings repeated the note of the mauve ribbons.  Her stockings were silk and her slippers of velvet.

She was as amazing to him as a beautiful stranger.

“It doesn’t go with my earrings,” she said carelessly when she had fixed the band, “but it’s so pretty, and thank you ever so much.”

She turned and showed him; and she showed him, too, the interest she took in herself, which had caused her to pull out those waves of fluffy hair over the tops of her ears, from under the hair-band, and the curls she had pulled from beneath to dance on her forehead.