"'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 well as Sunday. He drove home to Hampstead in the blue Runaway, with its silver fittings winking in the sun, and garaged it near by. He came in rather morosely, and was thoughtful over lunch, saying little, till at the end of the meal he lifted his eyes to his wife's tranquil face and said suddenly: "I brought a car home. I want to take you for a run." "And me, Daddy!" George shouted, but his father shook his head. "No," he said doggedly, "not to-day. I just want mother." "I'd love to come," said Marie readily.