“I daresay you’d rather have the children than the maid.”

“Of course I would—­the priceless things!” Marie cried, her small pale face warming with maternity.

Julia dispensed tea; and for awhile refused to allow her guest to talk more until she was refreshed.  And when she was refreshed and rested among the amenities of the mauve room, that absorption in the affairs around which her whole life moved and had its being grew less keen; her preoccupations lifted; she left the problem which, even here, had begun to worry her, as to whether a pound, or three-quarters of a pound only, of wool would make George a jersey suit, and she turned her eyes with a kind of wondering recollection upon the world outside.  She began by looking around the room at the many well-dressed, softly chattering women; at the cut of their gowns and the last thing in hats; then her look wandered to Julia and took in her freshness, the beauty of her tailoring, and the expensiveness of her appearance generally.

“I feel so shabby among you all,” she murmured, with a smile which appeared to Julia as a ghost.

“You look very pretty,” said Julia, “as you always do, dear.”

“When one is first married,” Marie said quietly, “one always imagines one will never get old and tired and spoiled, as thousands of other women do; but one does it all the same.  One’s day is just so full, and with babies one’s night is often so full, too, that there simply isn’t time to fuss over one’s own appearance.  With three children and no help, you’ve got to let something go, and in my case—­”

She broke off, to continue:  “It’s been me.”

Julia laid one of her hands over Marie’s lying in her lap.  Marie’s hands produced the effect of toilers glad to rest.  They hardly stirred under Julia’s, even to give an answering squeeze.  And Julia felt, with a burning and angry heart, how rough and tired they were.

“Julia,” said Marie, “I’ve often wanted to ask someone who would be honest with me—­and you’re the honestest person I knew—­do you think I—­I’ve let myself go very badly?”

“My dear kiddie!” Julia cried low, “why, you—­you’ve been brilliant.”

“Look at me,” said Marie, thrusting forward her face.

Julia looked, to see the lines from nostrils to mouth, the lines at the corners of the eyes, the enervated pallor and the grey hairs among the golden-brown.  She was sorry and bitter.

“You look a dear,” she said irresolutely.

Marie sank back upon the fat pillow again with a laugh.  It was the laugh of a woman who was beat and owned it.

“You can’t stand up against it,” she said.  “I don’t care who says you can.  Day in, day out; night in, night out; no, you can’t stand up against it.  I’ve often thought it out, and something has to go.  The woman’s the only thing who can be let go; the children must be reared and the man must be fed; but the woman must just serve her purpose.”