dining-room was still charming in the candlelight, but it took on a
new aspect for her. The cream walls and golden-brown curtains enclosed
her irrevocably. She would never get away from this place, the prison
of home. Day in, day out, as Osborn said, it would be the same. The
man might come and go at will, the woman had forged her fetters.

Didn't men ever understand anything? What crass vanity, what
selfishness, what intolerance, kept them blind?

Marie was hardening. She did not cry. After a while she rose and
cleared the table. As Osborn was not there, wishing for her company,
she washed up. That would make it so much easier in the morning.

It left her, though, with an hour now in which to sit down and resume
her thinking.

The flat was very quiet, very desolate. The man had gone out to seek
amusement. How queer women's lives were!

She knew women whose husbands invariably went out at night, as soon as
they had fed. What did these women really think of their men? What did
these men really think of their women? How much did each know of the
other? At what stage in these varied married lives did the wife become
merely a servitor, to serve or order the serving of her husband's
dinner, for which he came home before, again, he left her?

Married life!

At nine-thirty Marie prepared the baby's bottle and went to bed. She
schooled herself to sleep, knowing that during the night the baby