“So the boss offered it to me.  You don’t need telling that I accepted, do you?”

She replied, “No,” in a quiet voice.

“I knew you’d think I ought to take it,” he said, with a swift glance at her.  “Of course, it mayn’t be permanent, but I think it’s up to me to make it so.  I guess I can hold down a job of that kind as well as anyone else, if I’ve the chance.  It’s a fine chance!  Do you know what it means?”

She uttered a questioning sound.

“Five hundred a year,” he said huskily, “with a good commission and all expenses paid.  The expenses are—­are princely.  You see, a fellow selling motors isn’t like a fellow selling tea.  He’s got to do the splendid—­get among the right people; among all sorts of people.  Oh, it’ll be life!”

Passion was subdued again in her; it was old and drowsy and quiet.  Knitting her fingers tightly round her knee, she rocked a little, and asked: 

“When do you start?”

“Of course it’s rather sudden—­”

“So I understood from what you said.  When will it be, Osborn?”

“To-morrow.”

She stared into his face, unbelieving.

“To-morrow?” she whispered.

He got up hurriedly and fumbled about the mantel-piece in a fake search for cigarettes.

“You see, I’ve got to follow out Woodall’s programme exactly; he would have started to-morrow.”

“How—­how long will you be away?”

“A year.”

“A year!” she half screamed.  “Oh, no! no! no!”

He looked at her with something of fear and something of sulkiness.  He was on the defensive, willing to be very kind, but resolute not to be nagged nor argued with.  “Don’t,” he protested, “don’t take it like that.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said more quietly.  “It hit me, rather.  To-morrow is so soon, and a year is such a long, long time.”

“Not so very.  A year’s nothing.  Besides, I’ve got to go; it’s no use making a fuss, is it?”

“I won’t make a fuss.”

“There’ll be a good deal to do.  I wanted you to look over my things to-night.  I’ll help you carry them in here, shall I?”

She rose mechanically and went into the erstwhile dressing-room quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping children.  He waited in the doorway, and she handed out to him pile after pile of his underwear, following the last consignment by carrying out a big armful herself.  They returned to the dining-room and laid the garments on the table.

“Sorry to give you so much trouble all at once,” he apologised.

He lighted a pipe and sat down again by the fire, while she stood over the heaps on the table, sorting them with neat fingers that had learned a very considerable speed in such tasks, and picking out here and there a shirt or vest which needed further attention.  She was white with a kind of grey whiteness like ashes, and in her heart and throat heavy weights of tears lay.  She talked automatically to keep herself from exhibition of despair.