"Um." Mrs. Spencer tucked her hand under his arm. "Changes are good for us. But Margaret must have had an ill conscience. She's overthoughtful." "You see"--Catherine stirred the thickening briskly--"you aren't behaving as a Freudian mother should. You are always unexpected." "Freud!" Mrs. Spencer made a grotesque little grimace. "What does he know about mothers! But I did think"--she glanced sidewise at Charles--"that Margaret might find things less convenient." "She will!" Charles patted her hand. "Don't you worry, Mother Spencer. These violent crazes for--for freedom--or people--or causes--wear themselves out." Catherine lifted her head quickly, to find her mother's eyes quizzically upon her. They meant her, too! "Want to see my book?" Charles steered Mrs. Spencer out of the kitchen. "Catherine's too busy to talk." * * * * * Dinner went smoothly; the children told their grandmother about coasting, and she asked about school, about Miss Kelly. She wanted to take them to the Metropolitan that afternoon, to hear a lecture for children. "Aren't there awful jams?" Catherine sighed. Piles of mending, her serge dress to freshen,--she couldn't take the afternoon off, too. "Not too jammed for pleasure. But you needn't go." Mrs. Spencer's eyes narrowed. "I suppose you use your Sunday for a scrap-bag of odd jobs, like all other working women?" "I certainly do." Catherine was abrupt. "But you know you prefer the children without me as mentor." She caught a quick exchange of glances between Charles and her mother. They've been talking about me--she simmered with resentment--and Charles has won her over to his side, whatever it is. She had proof of that later. Mrs. Spencer and the children had come home from their sojourn, and after they had given Catherine an excited and strange account of the habits of a tribe of Indians, Spencer and Marian had gone to bed. "What did you do this afternoon?" Mrs. Spencer laid aside her magazine as Catherine came wearily back to the living room. "I showed Mrs. O'Lay where to find the various tools for her new job"--Catherine had explained Flora's absence earlier--"conducted her initiation ceremony. And washed out a collar, and darned." Mrs. Spencer nodded. "When you might have been with your children. Are you sure, Cathy"--she paused--"sure that you aren't losing the best of your life?" "But I'm not!" Catherine sat erect in her chair, her cheeks flushed. "On the contrary, I am with the children, and love it, and they enjoy me far more than when I was their constant bodyguard." "Charles was telling me about Spencer." Mrs. Spencer drew the gray silk of her skirt into tiny folds. "It seemed pitiful." Catherine was silent a moment, fighting against the swift recurrence of that frightful hour, and against a wrathful sense of injustice. "Children run away, often," she said. "I think Spencer just happened to catch at that excuse--of my not being here."