“When I saw the doctor,” he said, “he told me this feeling of yours would only last two or three months.”

“’Only’!” said Marie despairingly, “’only’!” She recalled Julia to him faintly, when she exclaimed:  “I wonder how you men would like to feel sick and faint and ragged-out for ‘only’ three months!”

He hung his head.

“Well, we can’t help it,” he pleaded, half guiltily.

“I know,” she whispered, with a sob in her throat, “but don’t say ‘only.’”

Osborn left home somewhat earlier than usual that morning.  That sort of half-guilty feeling made him glad to go.  It wasn’t his fault, was it, that Nature had matters thus arranged?  He agreed with his wife that it was bad management, but he couldn’t help it.  He was glad that, as he left, she asked him to do something for her; glad that he was able to do it.

When he had gone, Marie did a very wise thing, though he would have thought it a foolish one.  She lay down and cried.  She cried till she could cry no longer.  She lay there some while after her tears had ceased, as if their fount had dried, and she adapted her outlook, as well as she was able, to these unforeseen, surprising and dismaying conditions.

She was the victim of the pretty and glossy storybook, the sentimental play, and of a light education.  None of these things had prepared her for the realities she was undergoing; the story-book ended glossily with the marriage and happy expectations of a wonder-struck young couple.  In book and play the heavenly child simply happened; no one felt miserably sick, ferociously irritable, or despairingly weary because of its coming.  There had been no part of her education which had warned her of natural contingencies.  She now saw that for her blessing she must pay, and pay heavily maybe, with her body.

She argued with herself a little fractiously on the escape of men.  They had children without suffering; marriage without tears.  Was it fair?  Oh, was it in any sense equal or fair?

* * * * *

The little clock struck 6.30.  Osborn was due, and dinner not yet preparing.  Marie ran to the kitchen.  “Goodness!” she said to herself, “it’s endless!  Life’s nothing but getting meals.  Is eating worth while?” She hurried around the flat till she was tired again, but hasten as she might, Osborn arrived before the cooking was done.

She was changing her gown when he appeared at the door of their room; she had not yet lowered the standard she had set for the ever-dainty wife prepared to charm her lord.

“Hallo, kiddie!” said Osborn, his voice rather tired.  “I’m awf’ly hungry.  Had a quick lunch.  Is dinner ready?”

“No, it isn’t,” she replied sharply; “and what’s more, it won’t be for another half-hour.”

“Well, you might hurry it.”

“I’ve been hurrying; I’m sick of hurrying, and sick of getting meals.”

The door slammed.  She swung round with raised eyebrows, hands up to her hair, which she was dressing.