At twelve Osborn came in, fresh and pink from the cold outside, with a hilarious eye, and a flavour of good whisky on his breath.  He was in great spirits and could have ragged a judge.  But as he took off coat and muffler in the hall, displaying himself in dinner clothes, there came creeping out to him from the dining-room, softly as a mouse, but with eyes bright as all the moon and stars, his wife.  She had about her an air of lovely mystery, about which Osborn was still too jolly to concern himself.  But she looked so beautiful that he caught her to him, and kissed her many times.

“You ripping little kid!” he said fondly, “have you waited up for me?  Or have you only just got in?”

“I waited up for you, dear.”

“Is there a fire?” asked Osborn.

“A good one.”

They went into the dining-room and sat down, Osborn in his chair, she on the hearthrug beside him, and she let him tell his story first, so that afterwards all his attention should be rapt on hers.  He said gaily:  “I’ve had a ripping evening.  Desmond was in his very best form, and he’d got two more fellows there, and we were a jolly lot, I assure you, my kid.  By Jove! don’t I wish I belonged to that club!  I’ve half a mind to get Desmond to put me up.  He would, like a shot.  We had an awf’ly decent dinner; they give you some dinner at that club.  We drank toasts; you’d like to hear about that, wouldn’t you?  That old one, you know:  ‘Our sweethearts and wives; and may they never meet!’”

Osborn laughed.

“I’ve had a nice evening, too,” said Marie, leaning against the caressing hand.

“That’s good,” said Osborn.  “Miss Winter came and you had dinner here, I suppose.  What did you see?”

“We didn’t go to the theatre.”

“Not go!” said Osborn, “how was that?  You weren’t seedy again, were you, kid?”

“Rather,” Marie murmured, “so Julia took me to a doctor instead.”

“My dear!” Osborn cried.

“Osborn,” said Marie, looking up at him, “we—­we’re going to have a baby.”

“The deuce we are!” Osborn exclaimed abruptly, and he sat back and looked down at her sparkling face incredulously.

“You’re glad?” she asked.

Osborn pulled himself sharply together.  He said to Rokeby afterwards:  “I believe it’s the biggest shock of a chap’s life.  Awful good news and all that, of course.”  But now he was concerned only with Marie, that pretty frail thing so joyously taking upon her shoulders what seemed to him so vague and dreadful a burden, and for the moment he was aghast for her.

“Are you?” he stammered.

“I think it’s lovely,” she murmured.

“Then I’m glad,” said Osborn; “if you’re glad, I am, you dear, sweet, best girl.  But tell me all the doctor said, angel, and just what we’re to do and everything.”

“We don’t do anything till next September.”

“Is it to be next September?”