"I've noticed my married friends seem to have very little of interest to say to each other."
"Why is it?"
"I don't know. I think they give each other all they've got in a great big lump too soon. But I don't know; how should I?"
"I wonder if I could tell you. I think it's because a man carefully robs a woman of all power to have any interest outside her home; but at the same time he votes her home interests too dull to talk about."
"Married life!" said Rokeby quizzically.
"But there are beautiful things in it; children, you know. I shouldn't have said what I did."
They let a silence elapse as if to swallow up the memory of the things Marie shouldn't have said, and after it he asked: "What time shall we go?"
At six o'clock they were speeding down Cannon Street, along the Strand, and the gaudier thoroughfares of the West, in a taxicab, to Julia's flat.
Her delight at seeing Marie was obvious, but a veil of reserve seemed to drop over her vivid, strong face when she saw who escorted her.
Rokeby would not take leave of Marie on the threshold, though; he followed her in and sat down, asking if he might stay. There was about him an air of smiling determination, and his eyes obstinately sought Julia's, which as obstinately avoided his. She began to chatter, as if to slur over a momentary confusion.