were! They grew up, looking infantilely upon men, and reading about
them in fairy tales. One day a pretty girl became engaged to one of
them. What congratulations! What importance, delight! What prospects!
What planning! What roses! The pretty girl then married one of them,
the dearest and best of them, and began to wash dishes. Her heart,
which had never been perplexed before, grew very perplexed. Her little
purse, which had never been so very hungry before, now hungered for
things, simple things, matinées, and sweets and blouses. She stayed
all day in a flat, desolately quiet, waiting for one moment when the
dearest and best came home.

How queer women's lives were!

* * * * *

When Osborn was going to dine with Rokeby at his club he told Marie
about it just as she was stretching a reluctant foot out of her bed
into the cold of a grey December morning, and an extraordinary
rebellion rose in her with sirocco-like fierceness. She got out of bed
without replying, clutched at her dressing-gown and dragged it on,
while Osborn's drowsy voice continued, "Desmond asked me, and I
thought I would; he wasn't sure if you'd mind--if you'd think it
rather often. But I told him you weren't that sort; I told him you
were a sport. You'll do something nice this evening, won't you,
darling? What'll you do?"

"What is something 'nice'?" said Marie, staring at her face, which
looked wan and cold, in the glass.

"I don't know," said Osborn.