“Yes,” said Marie, trembling a little.

CHAPTER VII

DISILLUSION

Osborn had to tell Desmond Rokeby; he simply couldn’t help it.  They met at a quick lunch counter, an unusual meeting, for Rokeby lunched almost invariably at his club.  As Osborn ate his sandwiches and drank his ale he was looking sideways at Rokeby all the time, and feeling, somehow, how futile he was, how worthless bachelors were to the world; and presently, when the space around them had cleared, and the white-capped server had moved away, he almost whispered: 

“I say, Desmond, there’s great news at my place.”

Rokeby looked into Osborn’s eager face.

“I wonder,” said he, “if I could give a guess.”

“I know you couldn’t, old chap,” said Osborn; “the surprise simply bowled me over.”

Rokeby had already guessed right, but he had the tact and kindness not to say so; he had known men’s pleasure in the telling before.

“Are you going to tell me?” he asked.

“Am I not, old man?” said Osborn, looking at the colour of his ale with a kind of smiling remoteness.  “Well ... this is it ... how does one put it?...  Well, here it is.  Next September there’ll be three people instead of two at No. 30 Welham Mansions.”

“By Jove!” said Rokeby.  “You must be awf’ly pleased!”

“Simply off my head!  So’s Marie.”

He did not bank his two pounds that week, but kept them in his pocket.  They need not spend both, but one Marie must have.  And when he went home that afternoon, having asked permission to leave early, for a family purpose, and when he put the usual 30s. into his wife’s hand, he cried: 

“You’re coming out shopping, Mrs. Kerr.  You’re coming out to buy yards and yards of whatever it is.  And why mayn’t we do a little dinner as well?  You’re to be kept cheerful.”

She had been feeling pathetic all day, and she was full of pleasure at this.  She hugged Osborn and lavished on him all her peculiar pet endearments, and ran to change into her best suit and furs.  They went out together, very happy, and town lay spread before them, as if for their delight.  It was scarcely yet full dusk, the sky was like opals and the streets were just becoming grey, the lamps starring them.  The cold was crisp, and women in short skirts, trim boots, and big furs stepped briskly, their faces rosy.  Osborn had his hand under the arm of a woman as trimly shod, as nicely-furred as any they met, and, as well, as being proud and thrilled with his new significance, he was proud of her.  He liked men to glance away from the girls they escorted at Marie’s face; and he liked to think:  “Yes, you admire her, don’t you?  That little girl you’re with—­you’re taking her out and spending your money on her and making an ass of yourself, and she don’t care tuppence for you.  But this beautiful woman I’m taking out is my wife, and she loves me.”