His luck was wonderful.  He sold another car that afternoon.  Two three-hundred-pound cars in two days, meaning forty pounds in his pocket!  People liked him; he was big, good-looking and plausible, and he had a way with him which absolutely prevented any possible purchaser from ever giving another thought to any two-seater but the Runaway.  When he turned out of the establishment that winter afternoon, on his way to an hotel to dress for his early and lonely dinner somewhere or other, he was pleased.  Brisk business did a little towards lightening his trouble, just as less innocuous excitements might do.

“Stick to business and stick to fun,” he told himself grimly, as he strode along, “and you’ll worry through.”

He thought of his children more than of anyone else throughout the courses of his dinner in a light, bright, well-served restaurant.  George was a fine little boy, and should be done well, thoroughly well, with no expense spared; he must get to know the little chap, take him about a bit and make him interested in things worth knowing.  Minna was going to be pretty, a facsimile of her mother; and the baby was a splendid little female animal.  There was no doubt that he possessed three beautiful kids of whom any man might be proud.

Surely, if only for their sakes, some day she’d soften and return to him?  Some evening he’d come home and find her as she used to be during the first year, sweet and eager, and shining; loving and passionate....

Osborn smoked several cigarettes over his coffee thinking of these things; he was in no hurry to see the show at the Piccadilly, and there would be plenty of time for Roselle afterwards.  But he was rather lonely here by himself, and looked around somewhat wistfully at gay couples, laughing parties, all about him.  There was not a woman there who could equal Marie, he said to himself; if she were only here with him, with her fresh, soft face, and her springing hair, and her round and slender figure, she’d put all this paint and powder right out of court.

But she was sitting afar off in a quiet flat, softly lighted, ineffably cosy, in the place called home, where husbands were not wanted.

He confessed to himself:  “It used to be pretty beastly for her; a little delicate thing—­three babies and no nurse; no help with anything.  I suppose I could have done a lot, but how’s one to think of these things?  I suppose I’ve failed as a husband, but what am I to do about it now?  It’s all over and can’t be helped.”

He went to his stall at the Piccadilly, and, looking about him at other men’s clothes, decided that he must have new ones.  The price of an evening suit need not trouble him now.  He settled down and began to enjoy the play.