He was moved to speak to her in some measure of this thought during dinner. They were not separated from one another by the whole breadth of the table. He sat on his wife's right hand, and the maid served them from the sideboard, an arrangement which pleased him because it saved him the trouble of carving, and also because it was rather smart, he thought, for home, where things generally tended to be dowdy. "I've had an awf'ly good time, this last year," he confided, "but I'm glad to be back. There's nothing like one's own home and one's own girl." The maid having gone to the kitchen, he reached for and squeezed his wife's hand. "I'm going to be an awf'ly good boy now you've got me again," he assured her. "Don't bore yourself," she said with gentle politeness. "What--what queer things women say!" he observed, after a pause, in which he had regarded her with some surprise. "Not so queer as the things men do," she replied thoughtfully. He started and felt a flush creeping from his collar to the roots of his hair. She spoke almost as if she knew of the folly and fun--but even as the idea came to him he knew it to be impossible. It was just one of the half-bitter remarks which wives made. Bitterness in a woman was horrible. The flush on his face had been imperceptible to her in the roseate light of the pink candle-shades, he was glad to think; but he waited until it had subsided before he spoke with a hint of reproof. "I say, don't try sarcasm. Sarcasm in a woman jars, somehow." "I wasn't sarcastic, really." Her tone was of raillery and somehow he didn't like that she should speak so lightly. "Besides," he said, with an inconsequent effort, "as to the queer things men do, men are natural animals all the world over." "And you don't suppose we forget it?" She had a pretty laugh; but what made for laughter in her question? "Men are men," he stated, rather at a loss, "and women are women." She laughed more. "It's been said before" she replied. Osborn was relieved to find the maid at his elbow with a sweet. "Alexandra cream, sir?" she was asking confidentially. "I hope you'll like this, Osborn," said Marie; "I prepared it myself this morning." When the maid had gone, he switched off to a less troublous track. "My socks are all in a shocking condition; I don't know how long it'll take to mend 'em, dear." "I'll spend to-morrow looking over your things. I daresay you want repairs throughout." "You're a darling. I believe I've wanted you to look after me. But don't stew in over my mending all day. Run into town and lunch with me." "I'll be delighted, Osborn." "We must have a beano one evening, quite soon. You'd like it?" "I'd love it." He smiled affectionately, pressing her hand. It was nice to give a woman such pleasure.