She protested again with soft words and the procession of dreams went by. The little home--how charming it would be! The chintz that matched her two best trousseau frocks, the solidity and polish of her dining-room chairs, the white paint and pale spring colours of her sitting-room, how ravishing it all was! The conveniences of the kitchen, the latest household apparatus, would they not make the keeping of the perfect flat a sort of toy occupation for a pretty girl's few serious moments? In spite of Julia, all would be easy and sweet. In a kimono and one of those pink caps one could cook a breakfast without soiling one's fingers. Osborn would like to see his wife look beautiful behind the coffeepot. She would manage splendidly. The income, of course, would seem small to some women, muddleheads, but she _could_ manage. She could make the most darling clothes, bake cakes like a confectioner's. Osborn would be surprised. She must have a pink pinafore, a smocked one. What would it be like, the first few days together? "Come and sit down," Osborn begged, and he drew her to the one big chair, into which they both squeezed. "I love you," he said, "oh, I _do_ love you! And we can trust old Rokeby to look after your mother and Julia. What a terror the girl is!" "She hates men," said Marie, with a pouting mouth. "Then they will hate her and I don't wonder," the young man replied scornfully. "Don't let us talk about Julia." "No, let's talk about us. I bought the clock, darling." "The clock! Did they knock down the price?" "No, they didn't," said Osborn, "but you wanted it and that was good enough for me." Her eyes sparkled. "You shouldn't be extravagant on my account." "Let me kiss you," said Osborn, "that's all I want. You liked the old clock, and it will look ripping in the hall, won't it?" "We shall be _all_ oak now." "Say you're pleased, then, you beautiful." "I am. I did want that clock. A grandfather clock--I don't know--there's something about it." "As for the price, sweetheart, why bother? It'll only add a few more instalments to the whole bally lump. It will be all right. I'll get a rise soon--married man, you know! Responsibilities, you know! Expenses!" "Mother's starting us with every kind of saucepan and broom and brush you can think of." "Bless her!" "Osborn, it will be an awf'ly _smart_ flat." "It will, with you in it." "No, but really. Everyone will admire it. I mean everyone to admire. We'll have some little dinner-parties, won't we?" "Will we, Cook?" "I shall make the sweets beforehand, and we'll have chafing-dish or casserole things. That sort of dinner. It's quite smart, Osborn. And dessert's easy. Julia's giving us finger bowls, tip-top ones--real cut-glass." "Bless her!" "We're starting awf'ly well, Osborn." "Do you think I don't know that? We love each other; nothing ever goes wrong when people love each other. You'll be glad enough to give up the office, too, won't you?" "_Won't I!_"