"That's just what I wanted to hear." Catherine's eyes were somber, harassed. "I've thought it out, backwards and forwards. Mother's friend wants to visit some one in New Jersey. If Mother will spend the night at the house--but she won't approve, either." "Get your approval out of the job, Catherine." Henrietta squinted through her eyeglass. "You want it on every hand, don't you?" Catherine lowered her eyelids. "I did, once. I think I do less, now." "That's right!" They were silent a moment. "That's ripping!" Henrietta broke out. "That the Bureau offered it to you. You can't turn it down. I'll drop in occasionally on the kids, if that will calm your anxiety." "You really think it's not a preposterous scheme, then?" "The only preposterousness would be in refusing it. It's ripping!" "What is ripping?" Catherine turned, a quick stir of pleasure at the low voice. Bill was at the door. "Come in and hear about it." Henrietta waved toward a chair. "Tea?" Bill shook his head and sat down near Catherine. He sagged in his chair, a suggestion of unkempt, wrinkled weariness in his face and clothes. Henrietta explained in hard, glowing phrases, that Catherine had the opportunity of a lifetime. As Catherine listened and watched, she had a renewal of the strange feeling which had haunted her since Christmas morning. We are so lonely--so shut off--so absolutely isolated, she thought. Each of us speaks only his own language. We think we reach another human being, that he knows our tongue, and we discover that we have fooled ourselves. Grotesquely. Charles--remote, unreachable. I imagined that contact. Bill, and Henrietta--she is content, thinking she communicates with Bill. "Are you going?" Bill glanced at her under his heavy lids. "I think I am," she said. She wished she could find his thought which reached toward her. "Perhaps I'll see you. I have to go to Chicago the end of the month on that Dexter contract," he added, to Henrietta. He left them presently, and when Catherine rose to go, Henrietta's hand lingered, fumbling--queerly for her--over Catherine's fingers. "I hope you and Bill make connections," she said. "He's not well. I don't know--listless, needs a change, I guess." Catherine stared at the anxiety, the puzzled bewilderment in Henrietta's round blue eyes. "I've been worrying at him to see a specialist here, and he won't. Can't budge him, stubborn old Bill. He enjoys you, Cathy. Have dinner or something with him." "If we do make connections, of course I shall." Catherine felt a little prickling of guilt, as if in some way Bill's confidence violated complete loyalty to Henrietta. "I'm fond of Bill," she added. "There's nothing seriously wrong with him. But--there's a gland specialist here in town. I told Bill his cynicism would vanish like the dew if he'd let himself be gone over." Henrietta frowned. "He said if his philosophy was located in his liver, he preferred to keep his illusions about it."