sizzling gently over a low flame, coffee and toast were made; nothing
remained for him to do, but, very wishful to show his good intentions,
he stood over the bacon as if controlling its destinies. Marie found
him there, quiet and thoughtful, when she came in.

"It's all ready," she observed in a subdued voice.

"Bravo, kiddie!" said Osborn, "I see it is. You're magnificent."

A little while ago this praise would have made her glow sweetly, but
now it tasted sour in her mouth; she did not particularly wish to be a
magnificent cook-general, a magnificent charwoman. All her nerves felt
stretched as if they must snap and she must scream. Tremblingly she
set a tray on the table.

"Don't give me any, please."

"Darling! No breakfast!"

"I'll have some toast. Oh, don't, don't worry me! I've told you I feel
simply on edge."

Osborn ate his bacon with a feeling that somehow he ought not; but he
was hungry. He ate Marie's portion, too, half apologetically. There
was one thing, however, which, very sensibly, he omitted to do; he had
the tact not to open the morning paper. There are some things which a
woman will not stand, and one is the sight of an abstracted man behind
a paper, letting his crumbs fall down his waistcoat, when she feels
nervy.