Osborn met her as she was coming from her bath, quiet, subdued and pale.  Rather, he had been standing outside the door, waiting and anxious.  “Darling,” he said scared, “what is it?  Tell me!  Aren’t you well?  Has anything upset you?  What can I do?”

Marie left her dressing-gown in his detaining hands and, sobbing again, ran along the corridor to her bedroom.  She began to put her hair up feverishly with shaking hands.

Osborn followed her quickly with the dressing-gown, beseeching:  “Do put it on!  Do, Marie, do!  You’ll get cold.  It’s freezing.”

“M-m-much you’d c-c-care,” she sobbed.

“Oh, darling,” said Osborn, wrapping the dressing-gown and his arms tightly round her, “tell me!  What is the matter?  What have I done?  Aren’t you happy, dearest?”

“Happy!” she gasped.  “Why should I be happy?”

“I-I—­love you, dearest,” said Osborn in a tremulous voice.

“You g-go out, and every d-day it’s the same for me.  All day I’m alone; and I loathe the work.  Everything’s always the same.”

“I wish I could give you a change, sweetheart,” said Osborn, terribly harassed.

She hated herself because she could not be generous, but somehow she could find no generous words to speak.

“Shall I stay with you this evening, Marie?”

“No.  You’ve p-promised.  And I’m not that sort; you t-t-told him so!”

“Is that all that’s the matter, Marie?  Because everything’s always the same?”

“I’m so tired.  And ragged, somehow.”

“Oh, Marie, I wish I could stay at home to-day and look after you.  You’ll lie down and rest, won’t you?”

“When I’ve finished all my charwoman’s work.”

Osborn was silent, biting his lips; and presently Marie looked up, and seeing his face, drew it down and kissed him, crying:  “Oh, I’m a beast; forgive me!  But I’m so tired, and somehow so—­so ragged.”

“Poor darling!”

“You’d better go and bathe, Osborn.  We’re late as it is.”

“So we are, by Jove!  Look, I’ll be awf’ly quick this morning, and come and help you.  That’ll be some good, won’t it?”

She assented with sorrowful little sniffs, and he took his perplexities away into the bathroom.  He was terribly troubled, not seeing what was to be done.  What could a man do?  Women’s work, women’s lives, were the same all the world over—­married women’s, that is.  One couldn’t do more than give them the best home one could, and come back to it like a good boy early every evening, and love them very much.  If one were only rich!  How money helped everything!  Osborn cursed his meagre pockets as heartily as Marie had cried over them.

Osborn hastened into his clothes and went to the kitchen.  Bacon was sizzling gently over a low flame, coffee and toast were made; nothing remained for him to do, but, very wishful to show his good intentions, he stood over the bacon as if controlling its destinies.  Marie found him there, quiet and thoughtful, when she came in.