They discussed long and seriously the ways and means to the increase and the amount of it.  “Half a crown,” was her reiteration; “on half a crown I’d do it somehow.”

And he asked:  “Yes!  But where’s the half-crown to come from?”

“You must find it,” she said at last.

With compressed lips and lowering brow the young man thought it out.  “I give you all I can—­”

“And I take as little as I can.”

“I’m sick of these discussions about money.”

“So’m I.”

“It seems as if we were sick of the whole thing, doesn’t it?”

Being a woman, she dared not confirm verbally those reckless words; their very recklessness caused her to fear.  If they were sick of the whole thing—­well, what about it?  What were they to do?  They were in it, weren’t they, up to their necks?  Of two people who mutually recognised the plight, only one must foam and rage and stutter out unpalatable truths about it; it was for the other to pour on the oil, to deceive and pretend and propitiate and cajole, to try to keep things running and the creaking machinery at work.

Because—­what else remained to do?

But when Osborn rapped out:  “It seems as if we were sick of the whole thing, doesn’t it?” though she would not confirm this in words, her silence confirmed it, her silence and her look.  They made him hesitate and catch his breath.

“Well?” he asked.

“I’m not going to say such things.”

“But you know they’re true, don’t you?” he asked in despair.

“You ought to think, as I do, that the babies are worth it all.”

“When two people begin telling each other what they ought to do, they’re reaching the limit.”

“You’ve often told me what I ought to do.”

“I don’t know what’s coming to women.”

“A revolution!”

“Rubbish!” said Osborn.  “Women have no power to revolt, and no reason either.”

“It’s true we’ve no power; that’s what keeps most of us quiet.”

“I wish it would keep you quiet.”

“You see, I can’t help it, can I?  Keeping quiet doesn’t ask you for this other half-crown, and I’ve got to ask you.  I can’t help it.”

“I daresay not,” he admitted reluctantly.  “But—­”

“Can I have it?” she asked doggedly.

“Oh, take it!” he flared, flung half-a-crown on the table, rose, and went out.  She sat for a while looking at the half-crown, then she took it in her hand, and wanted to pitch it into the street for the first beggar to profit by, but, remembering that she was a beggar too, she kept it.

Osborn entered into further discussion of the matter in a reasonable vein.

“Half-a-crown a week’s six pound ten a year.  Sure you can’t manage without?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, lots of women have to—­to—­manage.”

“There’s a limit even to management.”