He tingled with joy. "I've been a fool," he weighed out slowly. "We are; and we--we want looking after, you know. We can't stand our wives forsaking us. We ask a lot of you, I suppose. Yes, it's a lot." "Well," she murmured, "we've always got it to give. We're made that way." "Not all of you," he denied, with a fleeting thought of Roselle. "Tell me," Marie asked, "what were you and she talking of so earnestly when I came in? It won't matter anyway--but I'm just curious to know." "Shall I tell you?" "I've asked." He answered very slowly, as if still weighing his words: "We were talking of a coming trip I have to make to Paris; I was asking her if she wouldn't come, too." A little colour rose in his wife's face. "I'll come instead," she said clearly. * * * * * Osborn Kerr let himself into No. 30, Welham Mansions, laden with packages. He knew not what thank-offerings to make to heaven, so he made them to his family. Flowers and chocolate boxes hung about him. He whistled gaily. Only three hours ago he had parted from her after that memorable lunch and, now, here he was again with her in the place called home. At the sound of his key she came out of her bedroom, dressed for dinner. The flat was quiet save for homely sounds from the kitchen. Osborn took his wife in his arms and kissed her. He stated exuberantly: "I came home early; I just had to." They went into the sitting-room hand in hand, and she sat down on the chesterfield before the fire. He did not want to sit down; he was too happy and restless and urgent. Now and again he hung over the back of the couch, to caress her, or whisper love words in her ear, and now and again he walked about touching this or that familiar object and finding new attractions in each. It was like the first coming to that flat when the very taps over the sink had been superior to all other taps under the rosy flicker of the new-kindled fire of love. What an evening it was! He kept saying, breaking away from some other thing, to say it: "I can't think this is all true. I can't think that you are just you, and I am just I, all over again. And that we're really going to be the two happiest souls on earth!" He came to Grannie Amber's old rosewood piano and stood touching it reverently. "There's a little thing I heard," he exclaimed suddenly, "that I'd like to sing to you. It's called 'Please,' and it's just what I'm saying to you all the time." He sat down to vamp an odd accompaniment indifferently, but Marie was not listening for the accompaniment. It was his voice which she wanted, and gave her ears to hear; and he sang: "Oh, Heart-of-all-the-World to me, I love you more than best; Then lie so gently in my arms And droop your head and rest. My kisses on your dark, dark hair Nor Time nor tears shall grey; _But the little wandering, laughing loves They flower beside the way._