He passed on, the trouble in his heart a shade lighter for the intrusion of something else, something pleasant.  It was like diluting a nasty draught, or soothing pain by partly anaesthetising it.

He reached home at his old time; it seemed so familiar to fit the key into the lock and step into the hall, redolent, even through the closed kitchen door, of the savoury preparations for dinner.  But no little woman ran out, smiling and anxious, to ascertain his mood.

He had to go in search of her; he opened the sitting-room door and found her ensconced on the chesterfield, knitting those socks.  This evening she had on a purply thing, a wrap, a tea-gown—­he did not know what to call it—­very graceful.  It made her look slimmer than ever; and stranger.  All these strange clothes had the effect of increasing the gulf between them.  In the old days she had to ask him, and she did not do it very often, for what she wanted, and it was his to withhold or to give.  Everything about her then had seemed familiar because, in a way, it was his.  But now she had a horrible independence, a mastery of life, even to spending her own money upon her own clothes.  He did not mind that, of course; he liked her to be able to buy what she wanted; but it made a difference.

She wore her amethyst earrings, but not the hair ornament from Paris.

Coming up behind her quickly, he bent over and kissed her cheek, it being all that she offered.  He laid a box of sweets on a table near, and it reminded her of that evening before he went away, when he had brought home a packet of chocolates to sugar his news.

“Not lost your sweet tooth I hope,” he smiled.

“It’s sweeter than ever.”

He untied the ribbons.  “Do you still thread these in your cammies?”

“If they’re pretty.  That’ll do for Minna—­I’m wearing mauve now.”

“I’d noticed.”

“Because of poor mother, you know.”

“Oh, of course.”  He put a bonbon in her mouth.

“What a nice baby it is!” he said softly, stroking her silk knee.

He knew himself to be a fool, but all that evening he let himself remain on the rack, wondering; wondering if she’d relent; if her stoniness wasn’t just a mood, and if it hadn’t passed away; wondering if he couldn’t break down that unnatural opposition in her.  And when at ten o’clock she rose and nodded “Good night,” he detained her, asking again urgently: 

“Can’t we—­can’t we—­be as we were before?”

“Thank heaven, no!” she replied, with a tiny shudder.

Osborn looked at her narrowly and spoke crudely: 

“Do you know, if I were like some men, I should tell you that I wouldn’t stand such fool nonsense; and there’d be an end of it?”

She went a trifle paler, but displayed no fear.  “Don’t you dare!” she said between her teeth.  “I’d leave you next day.”

Again he went a little way up the corridor, but stopped before the aloof reserve of her look.