“I’ll pay you back quite soon,” she said, lying; and he replied:  “You know you won’t, you naughty girl; and you know I don’t want you to, either.”

She kissed him good night with the facility of her type, in the taxicab as they crossed a dark corner.

“Less lonely now?” she queried.

“I don’t care who denies it,” said Osborn, “a man’s got to have a woman in his life; he’s just got to.  If one drives him....”

“Poor boy!” she said in her murmurous way.

He left her at her door and kept the cab to drive him to the nearest Tube station.  A strange excitement filled him as he looked ahead to the direction in which he was drifting.  What did it matter, anyway?  He was almost in the position of a man without ties.

“‘Make your own life,’” his wife had said, “’I have all I want in mine.’”

“Well, I’ll make it,” said Osborn as he journeyed homewards.

The flat was alight, expecting his coming, though everyone was in bed.  The fire had been made up, and his whisky decanter and soda siphon stood by a plate of sandwiches on the dining-room table.  Marie was looking after him infernally, defiantly well, he thought, as he splashed whisky irritably into a tumbler.  It was almost as though she were making all she did utter for her:  “See how perfectly I fulfil my duties!  See how comfortable you are!  You’ve nothing whatever to grumble about.  Make your own life and I’ll make mine.”

He drank his whisky, thinking of Roselle.  “Here’s to Sunday!” was his silent toast.  Yet it was not she who tugged tormentingly at his heart.

But he was like a child who has been put into the corner, revengefully tearing the wallpaper.

He wanted someone to be sorry; very, very sorry.

There was dead silence in the flat.  What a lonely place!

How queer life was!

He went sullenly to his room, where his son was sleeping peacefully.

CHAPTER XXV

RECOMPENSE

Osborn did not tell his wife that he was going to be away from home all Sunday.  What did it matter to her?  How could his plans, in any degree, be her plans, which he understood were, for the future, to be made independently of him?  But though he asked himself this, he was wishing violently that she should care; he was hoarding up the announcement of his Sunday absence to spring upon her and make her blench.  He hardly understood his purpose himself, so vague and racked, so resentful and remorseful were his thoughts.  But that was in his heart—­to surprise, alarm and worry her.  If only, when he observed casually:  “I shall not be in at all to-day,” he could see her colour quicken and the jealous curiosity in her eyes!  If only he could set her longing to cry: 

“Why?”

And then he could reply:  “I’m motoring,” and she might ask further:  “Where?”

And then he could drop out casually:  “I’m running down to Brighton.”