most in the position of a man without ties.

"'Make your own life,'" his wife had said, "'I have all I want in
mine.'"

"Well, I'll make it," said Osborn as he journeyed homewards.

The flat was alight, expecting his coming, though everyone was in bed.
The fire had been made up, and his whisky decanter and soda siphon
stood by a plate of sandwiches on the dining-room table. Marie was
looking after him infernally, defiantly well, he thought, as he
splashed whisky irritably into a tumbler. It was almost as though she
were making all she did utter for her: "See how perfectly I fulfil my
duties! See how comfortable you are! You've nothing whatever to
grumble about. Make your own life and I'll make mine."

He drank his whisky, thinking of Roselle. "Here's to Sunday!" was his
silent toast. Yet it was not she who tugged tormentingly at his heart.

But he was like a child who has been put into the corner, revengefully
tearing the wallpaper.

He wanted someone to be sorry; very, very sorry.

There was dead silence in the flat. What a lonely place!

How queer life was!

He went sullenly to his room, where his son was sleeping peacefully.

CHAPTER XXV

RECOMPENSE

Osborn did not tell his wife that he was going to be away from home
all Sunday. What did it matter to her? How could his plans, in any
degree, be her plans, which he understood were, for the future, to be
made independently of him? But though he asked himself this, he was
wishing violently that she should care; he was hoarding up the
announcement of his Sunday absence to spring upon her and make her
blench. He hardly understood his purpose himself, so vague and racked,
so resentful and remorseful were his thoughts. But that was in his
heart--to surprise, alarm and worry her. If only, when he observed
casually: "I shall not be in at all to-day," he could see her colour
quicken and the jealous curiosity in her eyes! If only he could set
her longing to cry:

"Why?"

And then he could reply: "I'm motoring," and she might ask further:
"Where?"

And then he could drop out casually: "I'm running down to Brighton."

Would she inquire: "With whom?"

He rehearsed these things in spite of himself.

On Saturday he returned to lunch. It was his old way on Saturdays, and
the afternoon was free. A soft November day breathed beneficently over
London. In the morning, he hardly knew why, he asked the senior
partner whether he could take out a car to-day as