“Have you any idea of the rubbish you’re talking?”

She looked at him curiously, unaffected by his authoritative tone, and, seeing her disaffection, he felt uncomfortably at a loss, since his authority had failed him.  He was dumbfounded; angry and stricken at once; he had not the least idea now what tone to take.

He dropped suddenly to persuasion.

“Look here, my dear girl, tell me what you’re thinking of.  You know I’m only too anxious to respect your feelings and wishes; I don’t think I’ve ever violated them to the least extent, have I?  If I have, it was unknowingly.  You women have such queer moods.  What is it?  Perhaps you’re unwell and nervy, though you look all right.  Anyway, come here and tell me all about it.”

To avoid his encircling arm she rose.  She laid one arm along the mantelpiece, and put one foot on the fender as if to be warmed; the attitude struck him as exceedingly negligent, and when she began to speak it was in no sense as an argument, but as a statement of facts long ago cut-and-dried for storage in her mind.

“I’m sorry.  I’m really sorry.  But I don’t want you.  I couldn’t bear you in my room.”

She had got it out, and he was saying nothing, only sitting forward, hands on knees, looking up at her, horror, anger and disbelief in his face.

She went on:  “It’ll be no good arguing.  I’ve suffered and suffered, and had it all out with myself, and it’s over.  But I’ll tell you everything, putting it plainly, because I’d like you to understand—­if men ever do trouble to understand.  Look at me!”

“I’m looking.”

“Then you see I’ve changed.  You thought so when you came in.  I’m young again; I’ve rested and got my complexion back.  My hair’s nice; I get time for regular shampoos now.  I spend a lot of my time on myself.  It’s lovely.  And my teeth, have you noticed them?”

She set them together and opened her lips to show him all the gleamy whiteness between.

“I spent ten pounds on them, having them filled and cleaned and polished; I go regularly to the dentist now.  And my hands, have you noticed them?”

Osborn met her question by a dead silence.

“They’re as they used to be again.  And I’ve done it all in this year you’ve been away.  And there’s another thing—­it occurred to me the other day when I was wondering what really made all the difference—­there’s not been a cross word or a grumble in this flat for twelve months.  That’s happiness.  Heavens!  That keeps women young!”

She stopped and thought, and continued slowly: 

“Marriage is funny.  It’s a thing men can’t bear unless it’s gilded.  And they vent their intolerance.  Do you know that before you went away—­for four years—­I scarcely ever expected you to say loving or civil things.  Before you went out in the mornings you shouted for the breakfast, and I was hurrying all I could; and you grumbled if the children made a noise.  And when you came in, if dinner wasn’t ready or right, you grumbled at that again.  And in the week-ends the kids dared hardly play, and I was buffer all the time between you and them.  It’s just what happens in thousands of homes, of course.”