“I am happy, Osborn.”

“We do ourselves pretty well, don’t we, dear?” he said appreciatively.  “This is jolly snug.  Now I’ll make the coffee.  You sit still.”

Marie watched Osborn.  She took her cup from him, and stirred her coffee into a whirlpool, and at last said: 

“You see, Osborn, I want some money, please.”

“All right, darling,” he replied.  “I’ll give you a bit to go on with any time.”

His ready hand jingled in his trousers pocket.

“It’s for the tradesmen,” said Marie; “I thought we’d pay every week.”

“That’s it,” he enjoined, “be methodical.  That’s splendid of you.”

“And this week it comes to two pounds ten.”

Osborn’s hand ceased its jingling; he withdrew it and sat still.

“Oh!...” he said in an altered voice, “does it?  Well, all right.”

“That doesn’t include the coal, or—­or allow for gas,” murmured Marie.  “I expect the meter is ready for another half-crown.”

Osborn looked at the sitting-room fire.

“Marie love,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m sorry, but—­but will it always come to as much?”

“I hope not.  No, I’ll keep it down as much as I can, Osborn.  But this week—­”

“Was just a trial trip,” said Osborn.

“You see, I told the tradespeople to send in weekly books and—­and if I don’t pay, they’ll wonder.”

“Don’t fret yourself, kitten.  I’ll give it to you.  But—­”

Osborn put down his coffee cup in a final way.

“The fact is, Marie, you see—­I don’t want you to think me mean—­”

“Oh, Osborn!”

“No, but the fact is, it just happens I’m able to give it to you to-day, because I’ve got a little in the bank.  But our honeymoon and the first instalments on the furniture and your engagement ring ran through most of it, and—­and so there’s only a little left—­about twenty pounds or so.  My people lived on an annuity, you know; they only left me savings.  Well, I thought it seemed snug to keep a balance of twenty pounds or so for emergencies, you know.  But I’ll draw a cheque on it for you with pleasure.  Two pounds ten?  All right.”

“But, Osborn,” said Marie, wide-eyed, “can’t you give it to me out of your—­”

“My screw doesn’t come in till the end of the week,” Osborn explained.  He flushed and for the first time looked at her a little haughtily.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured; “perhaps we ought to make some arrangement and I’ll keep to it.”

“That’s it,” he said, still slightly uncomfortable; “now look here, dearie—­”

“I’ll get my account book and put it down.”

“Does she have an account book?” said Osborn more lightly.  “How knowing!”

Marie brought a book, and opened it upon her knee, and sat, pencil poised.  She was very earnest.  “How much ought we to spend?”

“You know what my screw is,” said Osborn, as if unwilling to particularise.