"Lovely morning, dearest," said Osborn; "you ought to go for a brisk
walk."

"Perhaps I will."

"You do look awf'ly seedy."

"I feel it."

"I hope your mother will come round this morning. She'd do the
marketing for you, or something, wouldn't she?"

"Yes, Osborn, I'm sure she would."

Osborn helped himself to toast and tried to eat it quietly; he had
some dumb, blind instinct which comes to men, that crunching would be
vexatious. He handed butter and marmalade tenderly to his wife and
carried his cup round to her for replenishment, instead of passing it.
He did all he knew.

The anticipation of Rokeby and that sanctuary, his club, invaded his
mind agreeably. A club was a great institution. If he touched a good
commission this year--but no. Certainly not! He put the idea from him.

He put a hand in his trousers pocket and jingled there. A thought had
come to him, which comes to all men in moments of trial concerning
women, moments calling for prompt treatment and nice judgment.

A present!