"If she knew," he thought restlessly, with Roselle in his mind, "it'd be different. I'd understand what's piqued her. But, as far as she knows, she's been no worse off than other men's wives."
Her joy over her restored teeth and hands surprised him; it seemed so freshly childish. "I'll own it's hard on women," he thought, "but what could I have done? What did she expect me to do?"
He was quivering, soft, vulnerable.
"Did I really mean—just that—to her and the kids? Just somebody coming in to grump and grumble...."
The fire died down while he sat there, but what matter? She was not lying awake for him. When the desire came to him to make one last appeal, he checked it.
"No," he told himself cautiously, "give her time—lots of it. She'll come round."
He began to rake out the ashes suddenly and methodically, to switch out the lights. And very soberly he went to the room where his small son lay asleep.
His entrance roused George.
"Are you going to sleep with me, Daddy?" he asked nervously.
"Yes, old son," Osborn replied as nervously as the child had spoken.