Mrs. Amber regarded her knitting thoughtfully, then she dropped it to regard her daughter thoughtfully. She rose and shut the windows against the now chill night air of October, and drawing the curtains, made the room look cosy. She looked at the fire laid ready in the grate, but unlighted, and puckered her eyebrows doubtfully.
"The dining-room fire isn't lighted either, is it, duck?"
"No mother. When Osborn goes out in the evenings, I don't light one just for myself after these warm days."
"You should, my love. Really you should make yourself more comfortable."
"Now, mother, I'm sure you never lighted fires for yourself when father was out, unless it was to keep all the pipes in the place from freezing solid. I'm sure you screwed and skimped and saved and worried along, as all we other fools of women do."
Mrs. Amber did not deny this, knowing it to be true; she said something remote, however, about the pleasure of women being duty, and their duty sacrifice.
Marie remained limp in her chair.
"The point is, mother, that I don't know how to tell Osborn."
"Well, my love, let me tell him."
"Oh, mother," said Marie, "would you?"