“Julia, I—­I’m afraid I hurt his feelings.  I made him say, ‘My God!’”

“That’s nothing.  They speak of God like a man in the street.  That means nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, you poor lamb?  I’m as sure as sure.”

“Do you think you know much about men, Julia?”

“I know too much, thank you.”

“I hope you didn’t mind coming here again?  I didn’t know what to do; I was so wretched, and there was no one to speak to; no one to tell; so I thought of you.”

“That’s right, my dear.  Always think of me, if I can do anything.  You know I’ll always come.”

“You are a darling, Julia.”

The two girls hugged each other strenuously.

Marie said with a break yet in her voice, “It seemed to me I was being quite reasonable.”

“There are all sorts of men,” said Julia, “kind men and unkind; mean men and generous; good-tempered and bad-tempered; every sort except a reasonable one.  There’s never been a reasonable man born yet.”

When Julia had pronounced this dictum, she stroked Marie’s hair, and said:  “You know, baby, you ought to go to bed like the other baby.  You’re tired out and your young man’ll be home soon, I’ve no doubt.”

“I don’t suppose he’ll be later than eleven.”

“Well, I’d rather not be still here when he comes, thank you.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t say I’d told you anything!”

“I won’t give myself a chance.  I’ll put you to bed and then I’ll go home.”

Julia was like a mother to Marie when she helped her to undress, and tucked her up in the bed beside the infant’s cot.  And when Marie asked anxiously, with her mind still troubled:  “Julia, you know that I love baby, don’t you?” she was warm in her assurances.

“Would you mind,” said Marie, “making up the dining-room fire a little, please, dear, in case Osborn is cold when he comes in?”

Julia stroked on her gloves slowly.  “Certainly,” she replied, after a pause.

“I should only put on a couple of lumps, dear,” said Marie from the bed.

“Righto!” Julia answered at the door.  “Good night, babies!”

Very softly she closed the door and left them.

She stood for a few moments in the dining-room trying to persuade herself to make up the fire for Osborn.  She hated doing it; she grudged him his fire and his armchair and pipe and the comfort of those carpet slippers she saw behind the coal-box.  But at last she took up the tongs, saying to herself sourly: 

“It’s for Marie, after all, because she asked me; not for him.”

She chose her lumps of coal carefully, the two biggest, heavy enough to crush out altogether the tiny glow of the embers which remained; she battened them down and remained to assure herself that they would not burn.

“He won’t be able to say the fire wasn’t made up,” she thought.

She placed Osborn’s carpet slippers carefully in front of it.