ther
had petted her, but never had she revelled in such supreme petting as
the last fortnight's.

Where did all these fierce, man-hating young women whom one met quite
often get their ideas from? If only they knew, if only they could be
told, could be forced to open their eyes and see, how perfect the
right sort of marriage really was!

Why, a man, poor dear, was abject! A girl had things all her own way.
Secretly and sweetly Marie smiled over Osborn's devotion.

As she smiled, looking tender and lovely, in the firelight, the door
opened, and Osborn came in, perilously balancing his tray on one hand
like a waiter. He meant her to laugh at his dexterity; he felt a
first-class drawing-room comedian with his domestic attainments. Over
one arm he had slung a brand-new teacloth. He intoned unctuously:

"I think I have all you want, madam."

Marie laughed as Osborn wanted her to do.

"Sit still," he urged, "I'll arrange it all. The toast in the fender;
the cloth on the table; the tray on the cloth. I understand
everything. See, Mrs. Kerr? You won't be the only know-all in this
establishment."

Then he waited upon her; but he let her pour out the tea, because he
wanted to see her do it, in her own home, for the first time. The
situation thrilled both, after a fortnight of thrills.

"I wish Desmond could see us now!" said Osborn.

"I wish Julia could."

"I think we should convert 'em."

Osborn sat on the hearthrug with shoulders against Marie's knees. One
of her hands stole round his neck and he held it there; he knew it was
the softest small hand in the world; he had no misgivings about it and
its tasks. The hour seemed ineffably rosy.

"And to-morrow," he stated, "I go back to work."

"My poor boy," said Marie, "and I shan't work any more."

"Thank heaven, no." Osborn kissed the hand he held.

"This must always stay as soft as rose-leaves," he said fondly.

"You may count on my doing my best for it," said Marie laughing, "I
like nice hands. No woman can look well-dressed without nicely-kept
hands. And that reminds me, Osborn, I want some more cream for my
nails--cuticle-cream it's called. Any good cuticle-cream will do."

He hastened to jot it down in a notebook. His first little commission
for his wife! For Miss Amber there had been many, but this was almost
epoch-making as being for Mrs. Osborn Kerr. "I'll get it in the
dinner-hour, or on my way home. Can't you think of anything else you
want?"

"I h