He left her at her door and kept the cab to drive him to the nearest Tube station. A strange excitement filled him as he looked ahead to the direction in which he was drifting. What did it matter, anyway? He was almost in the position of a man without ties.
"'Make your own life,'" his wife had said, "'I have all I want in mine.'"
"Well, I'll make it," said Osborn as he journeyed homewards.
The flat was alight, expecting his coming, though everyone was in bed. The fire had been made up, and his whisky decanter and soda siphon stood by a plate of sandwiches on the dining-room table. Marie was looking after him infernally, defiantly well, he thought, as he splashed whisky irritably into a tumbler. It was almost as though she were making all she did utter for her: "See how perfectly I fulfil my duties! See how comfortable you are! You've nothing whatever to grumble about. Make your own life and I'll make mine."
He drank his whisky, thinking of Roselle. "Here's to Sunday!" was his silent toast. Yet it was not she who tugged tormentingly at his heart.
But he was like a child who has been put into the corner, revengefully tearing the wallpaper.
He wanted someone to be sorry; very, very sorry.
There was dead silence in the flat. What a lonely place!
How queer life was!
He went sullenly to his room, where his son was sleeping peacefully.