imes
he won and sometimes he lost; but either seemed to him immaterial in
this new lightness of his heart.

He was to be in New York two months, and she was to be there three
months.

She used to say reckless things to him which stirred the blood. Thus:
"You and I, Osborn"--he knew, of course, that familiarity with
Christian names was a trait of the stage--"have met, and presently we
shall part; and what was the good of meeting if this dear little
friendship is just to be packed up with our luggage?"

"You can pack up mine, and I'll pack up yours," he said softly.

"That's a sweet way of putting it; you're one of those light-hearted
people who don't mind saying goodbyes."

"I say, Roselle, do you?"

"Saying good-bye to fellow-souls is always sad."

On the windy deck she used to wear a dark purple velvet hat slouched
down and pinned close against her darker hair. It showed up the
whiteness of her face, which even the saltwinds could not whip into
colour, under the coating of white cosmetic almost imperceptibly laid
on. Osborn loved that hat, as he loved the graceful tilt of her skirt
and the fragility of her blouses; and sometimes it occurred to him to
question why men's wives couldn't wear things like that. One sunny
afternoon they had, when, instead of playing bridge, they sat in a
sheltered corner on deck and talked.

"Where are you putting up in New York?" she asked that afternoon.

"At the Waldorf Astoria."

"Are you really?" she said, and she thought in her shallow mind that
he must be very well off indeed.

Osborn did not tell her that his firm sent him to an expensive hotel
for their own ends; it was pleasant to have her thinking what she did.
He asked if he might call upon her in New York; if she'd have supper
with him sometimes; come for a run in his two-seater which he was
taking over with him. They made a dozen plans which, after all, could
not hurt Marie, and the prospects of which were charming to a degree.

They landed just before Christmas.

Osborn had written his Christmas letters to his wife and children on
board, and his first errand on landing was to mail hastily-chosen
gifts to them. A box of sweets for the kids, a bottle of scent for
Marie, these seemed to suit the occasion quite well. He even
remembered a picture-postcard view of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel to
bear seasonable wishes to Grannie Amber. Then Roselle claimed him.

Osborn had a good deal of odd time to put at her disposa