“I always want him.”

“We’re going to stay out till long past his bedtime.”

“Are we?”

“There’s a moon.  It’s tophole for motoring.  I’m—­taking this car out again to-morrow.”

“Are you?”

He shot a glance at her and postponed the matter.  They drove on fast and far, only turning when the moon was up and stars were in the sky.  They arrived again upon the summit of the great hill, the fringing trees now black in the light of fairy whiteness, before he spoke again of what filled his brain.

He drew up the car and, turning a look of inquiry upon him, she saw him bending towards her, his eyes fixed upon her face.  He flung out an arm along the back of the seat, behind her.

“Marie,” he said, “I want to ask you something which you can’t answer.”

“Why ask it, then?”

“Because I’m going to.  It’s this:  where are we two going?”

“You’re right,” she said slowly, “I can’t answer that.”

“What’s the meaning of this dreadful indifference?  This extraordinary indifference?”

“It’s not extraordinary; if you’d only believe me it’s the indifference thousands of women feel for their husbands; only in our case special circumstances—­your absence, mother’s money—­have made me able to realise it.”

“Well, if thousands of women have this indifference, which you say isn’t so very extraordinary, for their husbands, what—­what’s the way all these chaps win these thousands of wives back?”

“They don’t.”

“But I want to win you back.  Here and now, humiliating as it sounds, I declare I’d follow you around on my knees if—­if it meant getting you.”

“It wouldn’t.  I’m very sorry.  Do you think you love me?”

His hand dropped down heavily on her shoulder.

“Yes!”

“I wish I loved you, but I don’t.  You—­you’ve tired me out.  I suppose that’s it.”

“Very well, I’ll take what you say.  But I’ve another question.  Don’t you guess where all this is driving me?”

“Don’t hold me like that, Osborn.”

“I’ll only do it a few minutes.  Answer my question.  What do you expect of me?”

“Absolutely nothing,” she owned.

“And you don’t care what I do; where I go; what happens?”

“It’s curious; I don’t.  Once if I thought you met, looked at, spoke to, any other woman prettier or better dressed than I could be, I suffered torture.  But now, I’m through with it.  I’m sorry it should be so.”

“But that’s that,” said Osborn roughly, with a brief laugh.

He pulled her to him strongly, kissing her.

“I love you, you know.  But if you’ve no more use for me—­”

“Well?”

“Don’t expect too much of me, that’s all.”

“I have told you that I expect nothing.”

“Then you ought to!” he broke out angrily.

“I thought men appreciated complaisant wives.”