Behind the wife there stood shades, sturdy, greedy, disagreeable shades, and the two-hundred-pound husband always saw them; they were the butcher, the grocer, the milkman, the doctor, the landlord and the tax-collector.

How could she trim her lamp brightly to burn?

In the restaurant many diners had gone; many, lingering, thought of going; waiters hovered near ready to hand bills, and empty liqueur glasses and coffee cups, and ash trays, and the dead ends of cigarettes lay under the rose lights on all the tables.  Osborn had drunk a benedictine and smoked a cigar appreciatively; Marie had begun to think, reluctantly, yet clingingly, maternally, of her babies in the pink room at home.  She lifted her furs from the chair back, and a waiter hurried to adjust the stole over her shoulders.

“Sorry,” said Osborn, going through the slight motion of attempting to rise from his chair; “I should have done that.”

“Never mind, dear,” she answered.

Then he paid the bill, got into his own coat, and they walked out.  As they went, he asked:  “Well, old girl, have you really enjoyed it?”

“It was lovely.  Thank you so much!”

“Sure it was the sort of birthday present you wanted?”

“Absolutely the one and only thing, Osborn.”

“Happy young woman!” He took her arm and squeezed it.

“Cab, sir?” the commissionaire asked.

“We’re walking, thanks.”

They walked to the nearest Tube station, took train to Hampstead, and arrived home at eleven, to release the sleepy grandmother on duty.

“Had a lovely time, duck?” asked Mrs. Amber, trotting out into the hall.

“Tophole, Grannie,” said Osborn.  “Marie’s thoroughly enjoyed herself.”

“Simply lovely, mother,” said Marie.  “We went to the Royal Red, and Osborn gave me a scrumptious dinner.  Babies been good?”

“Not a sound—­the little angels.”

Marie kissed her mother good night, waved her out, and went quietly along the corridor to the bedroom; she switched up the light, bent over the cots of the sleeping children, and assured herself of their well-being.  They slumbered on, placid and dreamless.  Then she went to her dressing-table, and planting her palms flat upon it, leaned forward upon them, and gazed at herself mercilessly.  She tore off her hat, rumpled her hair, rubbed her cheeks and gazed again.  There were some little fine lines at the corners of her eyes, and as she looked and looked under the strong light, there stood out, silvery around her temples, amid the fairness, the first half-dozen grey hairs.  The sight of them petrified her; she had not known she had so many.

“Oh!” she breathed.

Her fingers travelled down her neck.  It had lost its roundness and, as she turned it this way and that, examining, two muscles stood out; her collar-bones showed faintly.  The crude abundance of colour of the dyed dress enhanced her lack of colour.