Marie began to tremble.  “I’ve been feeling so simply awful; I couldn’t think what was the matter with me, but I—­I believe you may be right.  I shouldn’t be surprised—­”

Julia drew at her cigarette savagely; tears were in her eyes; something hurt her and she resented it.

“Shall you be pleased?” she asked.

“Pleased?  I—­don’t—­know.”

“Will your husband be pleased?”

“I don’t know.”

“People seem to run about anyhow in the dark,” said Julia thoughtfully.

Marie blushed.  “Well, we’d never made any sort of plan.”

“I think it would be lovely to have a baby,” said Julia defiantly.

The challenge called forth an answering thrill in Marie; a force which she had not known she possessed leapt to meet it; she felt warm and glowing, tremulously excited and happy.

“So do I!” she breathed.  “Oh, Julia, I wish I knew for certain.  I must know.”

“Go and see a doctor,” said Julia; “he’d tell you.”

“When?”

“When you like.  I know one whose surgery hours are eight till nine-thirty.”

“Oh, if I could only know before Osborn comes home to-night!”

“Let’s go.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Marie’s mind flitted to its former anxieties of the purse, which she did not wish to reveal to Julia sitting there so well-dressed in the gown that she so easily had paid for.  Theatre or doctor?  Doctor or theatre?  Which should it be?

She glanced dissemblingly at the clock.

“I don’t know if I’ve time.  We ought to be starting to The Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“Chuck the theatre,” said Julia.  “I don’t mind.  This is a far greater business.  Come along; I’ll take you.”

Light and glory flamed in Marie’s heart.

“Don’t you really mind?”

“My dear kid, I wouldn’t let you go to the theatre tonight.  You’ll come and see that doctor, and then sit here in your easychair and rest quietly.”

Marie’s feet were no longer leaden as they carried her into her bedroom to fling on coat and hat.  She was consumed by a great wonder.  Could it be?

She counted all her money hastily into her bag and rejoined Julia.  They went out, walked to the end of the road and boarded a car, but it was Julia who paid the fares while Marie sat dreaming beside her.  It was not far to the doctor’s door.

Marie did not know how to begin, but found the way in which doctors helped one was wonderful.  In three minutes he had the story, and was twinkling at her with cheery interest, though as far as he was concerned it was the oldest, ordinariest story in the world, which invariably ended by calling him out of bed in the middle of some wet night, after a day of particular worry.

He asked her all about herself, where she lived, if she got up early, if she was busy, if she frivolled, and arrived at a mental summary of her circumstances.  The circumstances were as old and ordinary as the story, but her pretty face and wavy hair, her childish form and dainty clothes, made him wish for a moment that she could have kept out of the struggle.