"No," she said, "they have to be said to-night—not this minute, perhaps, but presently."
She was in Osborn's arms again, and he was touching her throat, her hair, and the velvet texture of her cheek.
"You've got fatter again," he was saying delightedly; "you look just like the little girl I married, only there's something bigger about you; firmer. There's no doubt marriage stiffens a woman up. That's it, isn't it? You're sure of yourself."
She gazed full into his eyes. "Yes. I'm sure of myself; absolutely sure."
"You always had ripping hair; but I think it's got thicker, hasn't it? It's springy, sort of electric."
"It used to be thick; and then it was thin; and now it's thick again, I think."
"You do it differently."
"One changes with the styles."
"You would, you up-to-date thing. Now, you're going to look at these souvenirs of Paris, aren't you?"
He held her close to his side, while he showed her what he had chosen; the pale-pink collars—"You were always gone on pink, weren't you?" he asked—the silk stockings and the vanity garters. With clumsy fingers he tried to adjust the hair-band.