“Number Thirty Welham Mansions, Hampstead,” she said as she jumped in.

It was an extravagant method of travel—­being some distance to Hampstead—­for a young woman earning three pounds ten a week and spending most of it gorgeously, but she did not care.  The four shillings were a nothing compared to Marie’s need of her.  She passed the time in speculations of wrathful trend, until they pulled up in the quiet road from which she had so recently driven away with Desmond Rokeby.

Marie opened the door to her—­Marie with a face like white marble and burning eyes.  Her dead composure was wonderful and scornful, but Julia would have none of it; as soon as the door was shut upon them and they stood there, between the cream walls and black etchings of the hall, she seized Marie in her arms, exclaiming: 

“My poor dear!  What’s up?  Has he—­”

For a long while Marie wept on Julia’s breast, before the ashes of the dining-room fire, while the clock with the kind voice ticked musically on and on, and the room grew chillier, and herself more tired; but at last she could tell all.

“We—­we’ve had—­an awful—­quarrel.”

“Oh dear!” Julia commented, “oh dear!” She did not know what else to say.

“I asked him—­about the pram.”

“Yes, yes!  As you said you would.”

“He is so angry, so unjust.”

“My poor old kiddie!”

“And I was so angry, perhaps I was unjust too.”

“No, no, you weren’t,” said Julia viciously.  “I’m sure of it.  Nothing could be unjust to him.  He deserves it all.”

“No, he doesn’t You don’t understand.  But he wasn’t fair to-night; he was so angry, and it wasn’t my fault.  Do they think we like asking, I wonder?  And I don’t know what I said, Julia, but I know I made him think I didn’t want baby.”

“Well?”

“But I do want him, Julia.  I don’t know what I’d do without him; I love him so much—­they just grow into your life, Julia, babies do.  He’s so sweet.”

“Course you love him.  I know that.  So does Osborn, so don’t cry.”

“He said I ought to be ashamed of myself.”

“Oh, indeed? Indeed!  And may one ask why?”

“B—­because I asked for a pram, I s’pose.”

“Really!  Indeed!  I’d like to—­”

“Perhaps it wasn’t just that.  I don’t know—­but he got so angry and said he couldn’t afford it, and I said, ’P—­p—­perhaps on the instalment p—­p—­plan?’ and he said he was sick of instalments and when was his money ever going to be his own again?  And I can’t help it, Julia, can I?  I haven’t money of my own.  And then I got angry and said things; and he said I ought to be ashamed of myself.”

“But aren’t you going to have the pram?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t expect so.  He went out without saying.”

“That’s like a man.  Go out and slam the door if you don’t want to give an answer!”