“I’ll darn that; it’s as good as new except for one thin patch.  These shirts have lasted very well, haven’t they?  The colour’s hardly faded at all.  You ought to have had new vests, but I daresay you’ll have ample opportunity for buying them.  To-morrow morning I’ll sponge your navy suit with ammonia.  What time are you going? T-t-ten o’clock?...

“I’ll sponge it before breakfast.  You may want to put it on.  I’m going to look for that glove you lost; it was a seven-and-sixpenny pair; we ought to find it.”  And things like this she continued to say to him, lest, the fantastic fancy of her grief whispered to her, he should hear her heart painfully breaking.

He answered with alacrity, the same alacrity of response which he had shown, at dinner; and he handed to her the packet of chocolates, asking jocularly:  “Isn’t she going to eat her sweets?”

She broke one slowly between her teeth again; it had an extraordinary bitter taste which remained in the mouth.  She hated the packet of sweets for its smug, silly mission of comfort.

Comfort!

How queer women’s lives were!

What did men really think regarding their wives?  What did Osborn think, sitting there in his accustomed chair, with his accustomed pipe between his teeth and his new and gorgeous plans causing his eyes to shine?

She knew now the wherefore of his eyes shining.  He was looking out at a wonderful adventure; at freedom.

Freedom!

What right had he to freedom?

She turned to him with a remark so abrupt that it was exclamatory: 

“It will be a good holiday for you.”

“Great!” he answered, his satisfaction bursting forth, “great!”

“I wish I could come with you.”

“Ah,” he said, “ah!...”  She watched him with a knifelike keenness while he reflected, and she read the stealthy gratification of the thought he voiced next:  “But you can’t, old girl There are the kiddies.”

“Do you suppose I don’t know that?”

“Oh, well; I knew you were only joking.”

Joking?

What a joke!

“I shall try to save a bit of money for the first time in my life,” he said.  “I’ll leave you a clear two hundred for yourself and the kids—­that’s all right, isn’t it?  Two hundred, and you won’t have my enormous appetite to cater for!  You’ll do very well, won’t you, Mrs. Osborn?”

“Thank you.  We shall do quite well.”

“I’ll arrange at the bank, and give you a chequebook.”

She said next: 

“A whole year!  Baby’ll forget you.”

The remark seemed to him peculiarly womanish and silly.  What on earth did it matter, anyway?  But he had patience with her, knowing how sorely better men than he were tried by their wives.

“Well,” he observed, “kids’ memories are very short, aren’t they?”