There had pressed upon them, hard and perpetually, during the eighteen months of their engagement, the many difficulties with which opportunity is cautiously guarded by its custodians.  They met in restaurants, in parks, and in the homes of either, and seldom could they be alone; and because they were superior people, not of the class which loves unashamedly in the public places if it has nowhere else to love, they restrained themselves.  It was a long and hard probation, lightened sometimes, some rare and precious times, by such moments as now occurred.  As soon as the kitchen-dining-room door closed behind them like the portals of sanctuary, Osborn held out his arms and Marie went to them.  She rested there while Osborn kissed her with hard, devouring kisses which made her murmur little pleased protests.

All the while she was thinking, “A week to-day!” Her eyes travelled to the clock.  “At six o’clock, a week this afternoon, I shall be Mrs. Kerr.  We shall be at the hotel, unpacking.”

“Not very long now,” said Osborn between his kisses.  “Soon we’ll be alone as much as we like.  We’ll be able to shut our own door on everybody.  Won’t it be priceless?”

Marie thought it would.  She fingered his coat lapels with her modish hands, and smiled with downcast eyelashes.  In happy procession her dreams paraded by.  She flitted a glance up at Osborn’s face for a moment and looked down again.  He was good-looking; he was the best-looking man she knew; his clothes were so good; his voice was so charming; he had no mean streak like some men; he was all gold.  He was generous.  Even while he had been spending all his bank balance, and more, on that nest for her at the other side of town, it had been delightful to be taken out by him to the nicest restaurants, hear chic dinners and good wines ordered with a thrilling lavishness.  Many girls must envy her.

“A lot of fellows will envy me,” Osborn murmured even while Marie thought her thoughts.

She protested again with soft words and the procession of dreams went by.  The little home—­how charming it would be!  The chintz that matched her two best trousseau frocks, the solidity and polish of her dining-room chairs, the white paint and pale spring colours of her sitting-room, how ravishing it all was!  The conveniences of the kitchen, the latest household apparatus, would they not make the keeping of the perfect flat a sort of toy occupation for a pretty girl’s few serious moments?  In spite of Julia, all would be easy and sweet.  In a kimono and one of those pink caps one could cook a breakfast without soiling one’s fingers.  Osborn would like to see his wife look beautiful behind the coffeepot.  She would manage splendidly.  The income, of course, would seem small to some women, muddleheads, but she could manage.  She could make the most darling clothes, bake cakes like a confectioner’s.  Osborn would be surprised.

She must have a pink pinafore, a smocked one.