In a week the nurse would go. Would Marie be ready for her to go? If not, could Osborn keep her longer?
He knew he could not. There was only a sum of twelve or thirteen pounds left from the twenty which had represented the nest-egg which he had when he married; five of those pounds the doctor would take; six of them the nurse would take. He tried to arrange the disposal of his salary afresh, and could do no more than cut down his weekly expenditure of ten shillings to five.
But Marie and the baby were worth it all—if only he could get them alone again.
A week after that the nurse left and Osborn came back to Marie's room.
He looked forward to it; part of the dreadfulness of the past month had been their separation; now they were to be alone again, without that anarchic and despotic pack. On the morning, before he left, he wished the nurse good-bye with a false heartiness and handed her, breezily, a cheque. He would see her no more, God be thanked! When he came home that evening his place would be his own, his wife his own, the baby their own; there would be no stranger intruding upon their snug intimacy.
Osborn's heart was light when, at six o'clock, he put his latchkey into the keyhole and entered; he gave the long, low coo-ee which recalled old glad days, and Marie emerged from the kitchen, finger on mouth.
"Hush, don't wake him!"
"Is he in bed?"
"Nurse stayed to put him to bed before she left."
Osborn embraced her. "We're alone at last, hurrah!"