The parents made conversation at breakfast, but not much.  It was kept mainly to material things relevant to the moment, such as: 

“You packed all my thin shirts, didn’t you?”

“Except the striped one, which has gone too far.  I’ll make it up for George.”

“Have you written the labels?”

“No.  I didn’t know where to.”

“All right.  I’ll do ’em.  It’s a jolly morning for a start, isn’t it?”

“Yes.  I’m so glad.”

“I’ll write and give you an address as soon as I can.  I shall be able to find out to-day about mails, I expect.  Yesterday I really didn’t think of inquiring.  ’Sides, I hadn’t time.  And I can tell you, I was all up a tree with excitement.”

“Of course you were.  It’ll be a lovely holiday for you.”

“Wish you could come too.  Look after yourselves, won’t you?”

“Yes, thanks, dear.”

“Did you tell the porter to get a taxi at ten?”

“No!  George can run down and do it now.  George, run down and tell the porter Daddy wants a taxi at ten sharp.”

Marie rose to unlatch the front door for George and returned.

The hour went past like a wheeled thing gathering velocity down an ever steeper and steeper slope.  It was extraordinary how quickly it flew, and the moment came for the good-bye.  She looked at him, and her heart seemed to beat up in her throat.  If only he would have thrown his arms around her and been very sorry to go!  She wanted a long good-bye in the flat, where no one could see and pry upon her anguish.  But he had been married for six such long years that perhaps he had forgotten the romance and passion of good-byes.  He kissed George; he kissed the three-year-old; he kissed her a kiss of mere every day affection; then, taking a hand of each of the children, he said gaily: 

“All come down to see Daddy start, won’t you?”

The hall porter came up for the bags.  Osborn helped the excited children down the long flights of grey stone stairs, and she followed.  During the business of stowing the luggage on the cab, she took the children from Osborn, and, heedless of the passers-by, put up her longing face once more.

“Good-bye,” she said tremulously.

He kissed her again quickly, turned away, jumped into the cab, and she saw the shining of his eyes through the window.  He pulled the strap and let it down.  “Be good kids,” he exhorted.  “Bye-bye, dear!  Bye-bye, all of you!  Take care of yourselves!”

He was gone.

Marie stood bareheaded in the bleak wind, holding a hand of each of her children, to watch his cab down the street.  After it had disappeared she still stood there, gazing blankly at the place of its vanishing, till at last the younger child, shuddering, complained:  “Mummy, I’s so told.”

“Are you, darling?” she said tenderly, lifting the blue mite in her arms.  She carried her child up all the grey stone stairs, George following, and they re-entered the flat.