"Nor do I!" she cried angrily. "Life's just one slow, beastly grind." She ran out of the room to light the geyser, and tears were streaming down her face, and sobs rising one upon the other in her heart. She sank upon the one bathroom chair, leaned her head against the wall and wept helplessly. Her body was shaken with her crying; never in her life had she so cried before. She felt as if she must collapse under its violence. She thought: "Osborn's going out to dinner, and I can mope and starve at home." With the sub-conscious dutifulness of woman she realised that her bath was ready; that she must hurry, that there was breakfast to make, and the dining-room to sweep, and ... and ... what a string of tragic drabnesses! Obeying this instinct of duty in her, she got, still sobbing, into the bath, and her tears fell like rain into the hot water. A man would have cried, "Damn the bath! Damn the breakfast! Damn the brooms and dusters! Scrap 'em all!" And for the while he would straightway have scrapped them and felt better. But Marie went miserably on, as her mother and her grandmother and all those tired women in the Tube had done times out of number, for the sisterhood of woman is a strange thing. Osborn met her as she was coming from her bath, quiet, subdued and pale. Rather, he had been standing outside the door, waiting and anxious. "Darling," he said scared, "what is it? Tell me! Aren't you well? Has anything upset you? What can I do?" Marie left her dressing-gown in his detaining hands and, sobbing again, ran along the corridor to her bedroom. She began to put her hair up feverishly with shaking hands. Osborn followed her quickly with the dressing-gown, beseeching: "Do put it on! Do, Marie, do! You'll get cold. It's freezing." "M-m-much you'd c-c-care," she sobbed. "Oh, darling," said Osborn, wrapping the dressing-gown and his arms tightly round her, "tell me! What is the matter? What have I done? Aren't you happy, dearest?" "Happy!" she gasped. "Why should I be happy?" "I-I--love you, dearest," said Osborn in a tremulous voice. "You g-go out, and every d-day it's the same for me. All day I'm alone; and I loathe the work. Everything's always the same." "I wish I could give you a change, sweetheart," said Osborn, terribly harassed. She hated herself because she could not be generous, but somehow she could find no generous words to speak. "Shall I stay with you this evening, Marie?" "No. You've p-promised. And I'm not that sort; you t-t-told him so!" "Is that all that's the matter, Marie? Because everything's always the same?" "I'm so tired. And ragged, somehow." "Oh, Marie, I wish I could stay at home to-day and look after you. You'll lie down and rest, won't you?" "When I've finished all my charwoman's work." Osborn was silent, biting his lips; and presently Marie looked up, and seeing his face, drew it down and kissed him, crying: "Oh, I'm a beast; forgive me! But I'm so tired, and somehow so--so ragged." "Poor darling!"