"You look a dear," she said irresolutely.
Marie sank back upon the fat pillow again with a laugh. It was the laugh of a woman who was beat and owned it.
"You can't stand up against it," she said. "I don't care who says you can. Day in, day out; night in, night out; no, you can't stand up against it. I've often thought it out, and something has to go. The woman's the only thing who can be let go; the children must be reared and the man must be fed; but the woman must just serve her purpose."
Tears swelled in Julia's eyes. "Don't," she begged huskily, "don't get bitter."
Marie returned her look with the simple and wide-eyed one she remembered so well. "I'm not," she stated; "I was just thinking, and it comes to that. You must feed a man and look after him and make him comfortable, or—or you wouldn't keep him at all."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. But I sometimes think," she whispered, "if I let myself go, get plain and drab, will I keep him then?"
"It is in his service," said Julia.
Marie said wisely: "That doesn't count. And often—I get frightened when he sometimes takes me out, and we dine at a restaurant. I look round and see the difference between most of the women there and me. In restaurants one always seems to see such wonderful women—women who seem as if their purpose was just being taken out to dinner and to be attractive. I compare my clothes with theirs and my hands with theirs; and I think: 'Supposing Osborn is comparing me, too?'"
"He wouldn't."