“No, I won’t!” Marie protested, tears in her eyes.  “I’m not going to take anything from you except your old gloves for the housework.  It would be scandalous; you, a girl working for her living, and me, a married woman with a husband to work for me—­”

“I know which I’d rather be,” Julia remarked.

“So do I,” said Marie, with a quick intake of breath.

They looked at each other a little defiantly, but did not proceed to any enlightenment.  Then Julia went up to Marie and laid her arms about her neck and her cool lips upon her hot cheek.

“Well, leave it at that,” she said.  “Good-bye, kiddie; take care of yourself.  I can’t stay.  Send for me any time.  I must fly!” And was gone.

Osborn came in hungry before seven, sniffed the dinner cooking, and turned into the dining-room.  He took off his boots, fished his carpet slippers from behind the coal-scuttle, and put them on with a sigh of relief.  The smell which pervaded the flat was savoury and good; the dinner-table was ready to the last saltspoon; the baby was quiet; all seemed to promise one of those smooth domestic evenings sometimes granted to a man.

He settled down by the fire after dinner to read so much of his evening paper as the Tube journey had not given him time for, while Marie made coffee and handed him his cup.

“Osborn,” she said.

“Yes, dear.”

“I wanted to ask you about something.”

Into Osborn’s eyes crept a harassed look, almost of fear; it was a very reluctant look, with repugnance in it and resignation and suspicion.

“About something?” he asked cautiously, “or for something?”

Marie had seen the look and had quite an old acquaintance with it.  That ever-ready lump rose to her throat, and she had that passing wonder which she had often felt before—­why she should cry so easily now.

“For something,” she answered hesitatingly.

There was a silence.

Osborn lifted his paper as if to resume reading.  His face flushed and his forehead lined.

“What do you want now?” he asked at last.

Marie flushed, too, till her face burned and tears glittered in her eyes.

“I’m afraid,” she said, “that—­that we’ll have to buy a pram, shan’t we?”

“A ’pram’?” said Osborn, as if she had asked for a motor-car.

“All babies have to have one.  It’s time—­he ought to have had after the first month.  He’s getting so heavy, I can’t carry him about much longer.”

“Then don’t carry him about.”

“I’ve got to, unless I stay in altogether.”

Osborn became silent.  Because he felt desperately poor he also felt desperately angry; because he felt desperately angry he was angry with the most convenient person—­his wife.

“Couldn’t we buy one,” said Marie, after he had remained mute for some while, “from the furniture people on the instalment plan?”