What was sentimental and what was sane? Catherine, smoothing into place the heavy coil of her hair, washing her hands, delaying her entrance to the living room, where she heard, vaguely, the voices of Charles and the children, struggled slowly to lift her head above the maelstrom. It was only for a few weeks out of a lifetime. The children would not suffer. And I want to go, she thought. Something leaped within her, vigorous, hungry, clamorous. It's not loving them less, to need something outside them, beyond them, something worth the temporary price of absence. Charles loved them, and yet he could go freely, without any of these qualms, into danger, for months. She marched into the living room, her resolution firm. She would tell Charles about it, after dinner. Perhaps he would be indifferent. Perhaps--her obsession bared its teeth behind the flimsy bars--he might be relieved, at freedom to follow other desires. Marian, perched on the arm of her father's chair, one arm tight about his neck, squirmed to look up at Catherine, expectant brightness in her eyes. Spencer stood in front of them, hands in his pockets, his face puckered intensely. "Couldn't it be managed some way, Daddy?" he begged. "Where's your allowance?" Charles stretched lazily, one hand enclosing Marian's slippered feet, dancing them slowly up and down. "It's all in hock, for three weeks." Spencer was dolorous. "For Christmas presents, and they're all over." "It's where?" Catherine laughed, and Spencer spun around, hope smoothing some of his puckers. "Hock. That's what Tom says. But he says when he needs more money he asks his mother and she tells his father and he gets it." "And who is Tom?" Charles stood up. Swinging Marian to her feet. "Let's have dinner." It was Tom Wilcox on the floor below. Spencer had spent the afternoon there; his story came out in excited fragments. He had helped set up a radio apparatus, and he wanted one, to rig up on his bed, like Tom's. Then he could wake up in the night and listen to a concert, or a man telling about the weather. "He lent me a book about it, Mother." He poised his fork in mid-air, and down splashed his bit of mashed potato. "Watch what you are doing, sir," said Charles. Spencer flushed, but hurried on, "And I know I could set one up alone, and it's wonderful, Mother, you can listen to things thousands of miles away, an'----" "If Spencer has one, I want one on my bed, too," declared Marian, with a demure, sidewise glance at her father. "Couldn't I have one, Daddy?" "Spencer hasn't one yet." Charles teased him. "How much do they cost?" asked Catherine, gently. Marian's glance bothered her. The child couldn't--how could she?--feel that thicket which had sprung up this last week, enough to range herself deliberately with her father. "Well, quite a lot of dollars. Four or five or mebbe six." Spencer was doubtful. "But they last forever, Tom says, an'----" "What would you do with it?"