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."

Tears swelled in Julia's eyes. "Don't," she begged huskily, "don't get
bitter."

Marie returned her look with the simple and wide-eyed one she
remembered so well. "I'm not," she stated; "I was just thinking, and
it comes to that. You must feed a man and look after him and make him
comfortable, or--or you wouldn't keep him at all."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. But I sometimes think," she whispered, "if I let myself
go, get plain and drab, will I keep him then?"

"It is in his service," said Julia.

Marie said wisely: "That doesn't count. And often--I get frightened
when he sometimes takes me out, and we dine at a restaura