Mrs. Amber was with Marie a great deal during the rest of that hot summer; she had waited for the close intimacy of the honeymoon time, of the first year, to wear away; she had bided her hour very patiently.  When the husband began—­as he would—­to go out for an hour after dinner, just to meet a friend, and would stay two—­three, four hours perhaps, then the mother had come into her own again.  Sitting with the strangely-quietened Marie by the open windows of the pale sitting-room—­which they could use again with perfect economy during the summer weather—­Mrs. Amber was well content with the way of things.  She knitted placidly for baby George all the while, and Marie, who hated knitting, sewed for him.

They were evenings such as Mrs. Amber the young wife used to spend with her own mother, while young Mr. Amber betook himself to the strange and unexplained haunts of men.

And on one of these evenings, while the weather was still warm enough to sit looking out into the darkness through the opened windows, but when an autumn haze had begun to hang again about the night, Marie had something to tell her mother, which had blanched her cheek and moistened her eyes all day.

“Mother, I don’t know what you’ll think, but—­I’m going to have another baby.”

“Oh—­my—­dear!” said Mrs. Amber.

The two women gazed into each other’s eyes, and while a half-pleased expression stole through the solicitude in Mrs. Amber’s, Marie’s were wide with fear.

“Are you sure, duck?” said the elder woman, her knitting dropped in her lap.

“Sure,” Marie murmured hoarsely.  “I’ve been afraid—­and I waited before I told you.  But I’m sure.  It—­it’ll be next summer—­in the hot weather, just when we’d have been going away to the sea.  We shan’t be able to afford to go to Littlehampton next year.”

“An only child,” said Mrs. Amber comfortingly, “is a mistake.  It’s almost cruel to have an only child.  You’ll be much better with two than one.”

“How can you say so?  All that to go through again—­”

“Oh, duck, I know!  But it won’t be so bad next time; anyone’ll tell you that.  Ask your doctor.”

“I shan’t have the doctor till I’m obliged.”

“I’m sure Osborn would wish you to—­”

“How do you know what Osborn would wish?” And she said as so many rebellious women have said before her:  “He promised I should never have another.  He was crying.  I’ve never told you before, but he was.  He cried; and promised me.”

“Cried!” Mrs. Amber echoed aghast.  “Poor fellow, oh, poor fellow!  Osborn has a very good heart.  The dear boy!”

“What about me, mother?  Where’s your sympathy for me?  I cried, too.”

“We’re different.”

“No, we aren’t.  And he promised.”

“Oh, my duck,” said Mrs. Amber in a voice of confidential bustle, “that’s not to be depended on.  Men always promise these things; I’ve known it scores of times.  But it doesn’t do to depend upon them, love.”