would have none of it; as soon as the door was shut upon them and they
stood there, between the cream walls and black etchings of the hall,
she seized Marie in her arms, exclaiming:

"My poor dear! What's up? Has he--"

For a long while Marie wept on Julia's breast, before the ashes of the
dining-room fire, while the clock with the kind voice ticked musically
on and on, and the room grew chillier, and herself more tired; but at
last she could tell all.

"We--we've had--an awful--quarrel."

"Oh dear!" Julia commented, "oh dear!" She did not know what else to
say.

"I asked him--about the pram."

"Yes, yes! As you said you would."

"He is so angry, so unjust."

"My poor old kiddie!"

"And I was so angry, perhaps I was unjust too."

"No, no, you weren't," said Julia viciously. "I'm sure of it. Nothing
could be unjust to _him_. He deserves it all."

"No, he doesn't You don't understand. But he wasn't fair to-night; he