It was astonishing how much heavier a month-old infant could grow
during an hour's marketing.

That reminded her that they had something else to buy, a big thing
that would swallow up nearly, or quite, a week of Osborn's pay, a
perambulator. The baby had luxuries; his toilet set from Rokeby, his
christening robe from Julia, his puffed and frilly baby-basket from
Grannie Amber, were dreams to delight a mother's heart; but he had no
carriage. For a little while she might carry him when she was not too
tired; and when she was, he might sleep out on the balcony that jutted
from the sitting-room window, and she could stay beside him; but
ultimately the question of the perambulator must arise.

As Marie walked home with her baby and her basket, she said to
herself: "I won't ask poor Osborn now; not when he's just paid that
woman a whole six pounds; not till he's settled the doctor; and
there'll be an extra bill for the baby's vaccination soon, and the
next furniture instalment's due; but when all that's cleared off, I'll
choose the right time and ask him. I shall give him an extra nice
dinner, and tell him we'll have to buy one."

In a week, when the doctor called to vaccinate the baby, he ordered
the mother to leave off nursing it herself; he put it upon a patent
food, not a cheap food; and it formed a pertinacious habit of wearing
out best rubber bottle teats quicker than any baby ever known. In the
nights Marie did not now reach out in the darkness to her baby and,
gathering it to herself, nourish it quietly, without the certainty of
waking Osborn; but there had to be a nightlight, there had to be
business with a little spirit stove and saucepan, the unlucky jingle