The little clock struck 6.30. Osborn was due, and dinner not yet preparing. Marie ran to the kitchen. "Goodness!" she said to herself, "it's endless! Life's nothing but getting meals. Is eating worth while?" She hurried around the flat till she was tired again, but hasten as she might, Osborn arrived before the cooking was done.
She was changing her gown when he appeared at the door of their room; she had not yet lowered the standard she had set for the ever-dainty wife prepared to charm her lord.
"Hallo, kiddie!" said Osborn, his voice rather tired. "I'm awf'ly hungry. Had a quick lunch. Is dinner ready?"
"No, it isn't," she replied sharply; "and what's more, it won't be for another half-hour."
"Well, you might hurry it."
"I've been hurrying; I'm sick of hurrying, and sick of getting meals."
The door slammed. She swung round with raised eyebrows, hands up to her hair, which she was dressing.
Osborn was gone. She heard him entering the bathroom noisily.
"Temper," she said aloud. "Temper!"
There was a big blank wall, ugly, insurmountable, cutting right across the garden of married life.