He was quivering, soft, vulnerable.

“Did I really mean—­just that—­to her and the kids?  Just somebody coming in to grump and grumble....”

The fire died down while he sat there, but what matter?  She was not lying awake for him.  When the desire came to him to make one last appeal, he checked it.

“No,” he told himself cautiously, “give her time—­lots of it.  She’ll come round.”

He began to rake out the ashes suddenly and methodically, to switch out the lights.  And very soberly he went to the room where his small son lay asleep.

His entrance roused George.

“Are you going to sleep with me, Daddy?” he asked nervously.

“Yes, old son,” Osborn replied as nervously as the child had spoken.

“I’ll be very quiet in the morning, Daddy,” said George.

“You needn’t be, old boy,” Osborn replied.

He sat down on the edge of George’s bed, with a wish that someone of all his household, this child at least, should be glad to see him.

“We’re going to be great pals,” he stated, “aren’t we?”

“Yes, Daddy,” the child answered.

“Give me a kiss and say good night, then.”

George obeyed dutifully.  Osborn tucked him up and turned away.  As he undressed he thought of the toys he would buy the children to-morrow.

CHAPTER XXIII

INDIFFERENCE

Marie met her husband serenely at the breakfast-table next morning.  She looked fair and fresh and had other things to do than to give him undivided attention.  George and Minna were at table, behaving charmingly, though the baby, being yet at a sloppy stage, was taking her breakfast in the kitchen in deference to her father’s return.  Osborn paid his family some attention and his newspaper none; and he appeared to be in no hurry to be off.

“My first morning back,” he remarked; “I need hardly turn up punctually.”

“I suppose,” said Marie, with interest, from behind her coffee-pot, “that your work will be rather different.”

“It will, rather.  I believe I’m to put in some days in town, and then run down to our various agents in the Midlands.  There’s quite a busy programme mapped out, I believe.”

“You’ll enjoy that.”

“Shall you go away again, Daddy?” asked Minna.

“Don’t talk at breakfast, dear,” said her mother.

Osborn looked across at his wife.

“I shall be off your hands a good deal.”

Bitterness savoured his voice.  She smiled at him sympathetically, but he smarted under the knowledge that her sympathy did not go very deep.  Yet he was strangely reluctant to hurry away.  He remained until George had started for school; until Minna had begged to be allowed to get down and go to see baby finish her breakfast.  Then he rose, and went rather heavily round the table to his wife, and laid a hand on her shoulder.