“If there’s anything Marie can’t tell me herself—­”

In her most propitiatory voice she said, smiling up at the young man, “Can’t you guess?  I expect you do know, don’t you, though Marie thinks you don’t?”

Osborn sat down.

“I can’t possibly guess.  Is it a puzzle, at this time of night?”

“It is not a puzzle,” said Mrs. Amber, overflowing with feeling so that she had to remove and wipe her glasses; “it is just the most natural and ordinary and beautiful thing in the world.”

He sat forward quickly, beginning to have some glimmer of her significance.

“You can’t mean—­”

“You and Marie are going to be blessed with another child.”

“’Blessed’?” said Osborn, after a short pause, “’blessed’?”

“Blessed!” repeated Mrs. Amber anxiously.

“Some people,” said Osborn, “have rum ideas about blessings.”

“Won’t you go in and see Marie and tell her you’re pleased?”

“Is she awake?”

“I expect she is; most women would be,” said Mrs. Amber slowly.

She began with extreme care to roll up her knitting while she awaited his further words; she did not look at him, but glanced about the room, as if seeking some happy idea which she could clothe in the right and most acceptable words.

“Does she expect me to be pleased?” Osborn asked.

“Well,” said Mrs. Amber confidentially, “between you and me, she doesn’t; and that’s why I offered to tell you, Osborn.  She didn’t like to.”

“Poor girl,” said Osborn soberly.

He stared in front of him, whistling softly.  “Life’s queer,” he uttered abruptly; “marriage seems so gay at the beginning, and then—­all these infernal complications.  There’s always things nibbling at one; they never seem to stop.  When you’ve weathered one squall another gets up on top of the first....”

“There must be a great deal of give-and-take in marriage,” began Mrs. Amber.  “I’m as old as both of you put together, and I assure you that everyone has to make sacrifices, and try to do their duty cheerfully, and welcome the children whom God sends them.”

A little derision curled Osborn’s lips.

“I’m afraid these mere platitudes are no solid help.”

Mrs. Amber murmured protestingly, but, not knowing what a platitude was, felt she could not follow up the subject.  She rose and picked up her coat from a chair back, and wrapped herself up to face the night.

“Tell Marie you’re pleased,” she coaxed.

“But she knows I’m not,” said Osborn gloomily, “and neither will she be.  One child on our income is enough.  It would be different if we had plenty of money, but we haven’t.  Why, a family in this flat!  This flat with two bedrooms!  Imagine it!  When God sends these blessings, as you infer He does, He should build rooms for ’em. I can’t.”

“Oh, don’t!” Mrs. Amber implored, “don’t!  I’m not superstitious, but—­” she looked around her and shuddered—­“but you ought not to say such things.  It isn’t right.  People must make sacrifices.”