“Oh, what a greedy world!” cried Marie, despairing tears running down her face.

Osborn kissed them away, but remained much preoccupied.

“It leaves fifty-five pounds between us for my clothes and lunches, and travelling, and your pocket money.”

“How about your commission, Osborn?  Your ’extras’?”

“With luck they’ll pay for a decent holiday once a year or so.”

Marie suddenly readjusted her scheme of life while she sat blindly gazing before her into that too-costly fire.  “Osborn,” she said quietly, “I—­I shouldn’t think of wanting any of your fifty-five pounds.  You’ll need it all; you must keep up appearances.  I’ll squeeze some pocket money out of the housekeeping.”

“Oh, my darling!” said Osborn gratefully, “do you really think you could?  I expect, though, there’ll be a nice bit over, if you’re careful, don’t you?  You won’t want to spend ten pounds on coal, for example.”

“I intend to manage,” Marie replied vigorously.

“And I’ll often be able to give you a decent present out of my commission.  I shan’t let you go short.”

“Osborn, I mean to help you.  We’ll get on splendidly.  You do love me, don’t you?”

“My darling, I adore you; and I know you’re the finest, bravest girl in the world.  I would like to load you with everything beautiful under the sun, and some day I will.  When I get a rise, you’ll be the first to benefit.  I’ll make you a real pin-money allowance.  Don’t I long to do it?”

“Osborn, meanwhile, can I have this week’s money?”

Osborn wrote out a cheque for two pounds ten very bravely.  The discussion had been a weighty one.  As he handed it to her, he drew her down on his knee, and, holding her tight, impressed her:  “You won’t let this happen again, in any circumstances, will you, dear girl?”

“Never!” she promised fervently.

So Marie began housekeeping in the way her mother began, and her grandmother, and those jealous tired women in the Tube; the old way of the labouring souls, the old way scarred with crow’s feet and wrinkles, and rained on by tears.

CHAPTER VI

DISCIPLINE

Marie meant always to be trim and neat and lovely, a feast for the eye of man.  But when winter had settled upon town in a crescendo of cold, and when you thought twice before lighting that gas-fire which you had meant to dress by every morning, and when, too, Osborn began to resume his normal habit of sleeping till the very last moment, why, you no longer gave yourself—­or rather, Osborn no longer gave himself—­the trouble of rising to make tea.  Marie had much more to do than merely dress, and as soon as she had opened her sleepy eyes she sprang resolutely out into the grim cold that seemed so closely to surround her snug bed, and fell to work.  She felt as if the toil of a lifetime lay behind her, by the time she and Osborn sat opposite to one another at their breakfast table, and yet, too, as if the toil of a lifetime lay before her.