Marie grew ice-cold when she had said a thing that she would have thought impossible to say; but there was a keen triumph in the ice-coldness.  She had silenced him.

“Isn’t married life ugly?” she asked.  “Isn’t it little and mean and sordid and stingy and unjust?  You create a condition which will tie me to the house; you are angry with the condition because it’s expensive; you’re angry with me for being house-tied.  Can I help it?  Can I help anything?  Do you think I don’t want theatres and to go out to dinner with you as I used to?  The baby’s yours, isn’t he, as well as mine?”

“Marie,” said Osborn, “Marie—­”

He searched for things to say.

“I wish I had never married you—­I wish I had never married at all,” said Marie.  “Men won’t understand; they’re impatient, they’re brutes!  And you haven’t answered my question yet.”

Osborn went out of the flat.

The inevitable answer of the goaded man—­anger, silence and retreat—­cried aloud to her.

She was afraid of herself.

What terrible things she had said—­she, a little, new, young wife and mother!

She spoke out into the stillness, shocked, appealing, still trembling with her rage.

“Oh, God!  Oh, God!...  Oh, God, help me!”

CHAPTER XI

THE BANGED DOOR

When Julia had left the Kerrs’ flat and was turning out of the building into the windy street, she met Desmond Rokeby about to enter.  Her handsome face was grim beneath her veil and her eyes snapped.  As she pulled up short and stood in Rokeby’s path, she expressed to him the idea of a very determined obstacle.

“How nice to meet you!” he cried goodhumouredly.

“I’m glad I’ve met you,” she replied.

Rokeby surveyed her quizzically.  “What an admission,” he said, “from an arch-enemy!  You are the enemy of us all, aren’t you?  Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Where were you going?” Julia countered.

“To No. 30.”

“Then—­yes—­you can do something for me.  You can go away again.”

“Are they out?” said Rokeby; “are they ill?  What’s the mystery?”

She looked up and down the road; she gave him the impression that she stamped her feet and frowned, though to appearances she did neither.  She ordered: 

“Don’t loiter here.  Osborn—­Mr. Kerr’ll be home directly, and if he sees you he’ll take you in, won’t he?”

“Probably, I should say.”

“Then come away.”

“If I may walk a little way with you.”

“I don’t care where you walk with me,” Julia replied vigorously, “if it isn’t into Marie’s flat.”

She set a brisk pace down the opposite side of the road, as if assuming that Osborn might pass them unnoticing on the other, and Rokeby kept step unprotestingly.  “It must be after six o’clock,” he said presently.