ch that put upon her spirits
evaporated, leaving her all pure bliss. It was entrancing to sit here
once more--where she had often kept Osborn sitting in the old days of
her imperiousness and his humility--and to watch the well-dressed
people come in and out, pass to and fro, and enact scenes which
suggested the gaudiest stories to her receptive mind. Light and
warmth, rich colour and abundant life flowed there like tides, and
many servants stood about the foyer to obey her behests.

The restaurant to Marie was revel and entertainment, and when the
slight blankness with which his lateness had oppressed her had been
overswayed by her enjoyment, she could have wished to sit here for
hours, doing nothing, saying nothing, eating nothing, but just
breathing in this atmosphere of wealth and ease.

But Osborn came, hurrying, between seven and seven-fifteen, apology on
his lips. A man had come in late to buy a car and they had talked ...
never was there such a long-winded customer. He took Marie's arm
lightly in his hand, hurried her in, and chose a table, the nearest
vacant one. He dropped into his seat and passed his hand over his brow
and eyes to brush away the daze of fatigue. He was tired and very,
very hungry, too hungry to watch with his old appreciation the dainty
movements of his wife, as she shrugged her furs from her shoulders,
and drew off her white gloves, and smiled at him radiantly, with the
sense of those dear, old, lost, spoiled-girl days returning
momentarily to her.

Osborn's brows were knitted over the wine-list and his hand moved
restlessly in his pocket. Very carefully he considered and weighed the
prices and at last gave his order quickly.

"Half a bottle of '93." Leaning slightly towards his wife, he added:
"I'm afraid it can't be a bottle of the one and only these days,
kiddie."

"Not now that we're family people!" she cried bravely.

While he leaned back quietly, awaiting the arrival of the first
course, and, could she have known it, craving the food with the keen
craving of the man who has lunched too lightly, she looked at her
hands, from which the white gloves were now removed. A pang, not
altogether new, but of renewed sharpness, shot through her, as she
looked down at the reddened, hardened fingers with the slight
vegetable stains upon them, clasped together on the table edge. Where
were the nails trained and kept to an exquisite filbert shape? The
oval of the cuticles? The slender softness