"I hadn't spoken of this field work," she said, clearly, "because I had to think it out first. Dr. Roberts offered me the opportunity a week ago. I did not suppose he took my assent for granted. Although he knows I couldn't refuse it unless the work meant nothing to me." "But what is it? You----" Catherine explained. She was clear, hard, swift. "You have evidently made up your mind to go." She nodded. "I can arrange things here so that the children will be cared for. And the house will run, just as when I am in town. It's only for a month." Charles got slowly to his feet, his mouth obdurate. "Charles, won't you talk it over with me?" "I have nothing to say. You seem to lay aside your obligations lightly. But if you are content----" "Not lightly." She shut her eyes against his face. One hand opened in a piteous little gesture of entreaty. If he should, even now, beg her to stay, wanting her, she would turn to water. "It has been difficult to decide." She lifted her eyelids heavily. "You must see that it is a distinct advance." "A feather in your cap." Charles was sardonic. "And you must have feathers." At that she rose, faint color coming into her white face. "Yes, I think I must. I'm sorry you don't like me--in feathers." Her eyelids burned. "You would prefer, I suppose, dingy ostrich plumes that you had bought, years ago--like Mrs. Thomas's." "Mrs. Thomas may be a fool, but she's a good woman." "Oh!" Catherine set her lips against the echoing surge of laughter that rolled up. She wouldn't let go again; she wouldn't! "I mean she finds her feathers in her husband's cap! Thomas is going ahead in great strides. Ask any of the men in college. And why? Because she is back of him, interested. A man has to feel there is some one interested in what he's doing." "And a woman doesn't?" "You see! I say something, trying to explain my position, and at once you twist it into a comment on yourself." Catherine retreated a step. Her glance winged about the quiet, pleasant room. That little table--they had found it in a Third Avenue store. "It smells like mahogany," Charles had insisted. She could see it in the kitchen, newspapers spread under its spindle legs, and Charles scraping away at the old paint. Their house, built piece by piece. They had never had money enough for more than one chair at a time. And they had loved the building. Now--her glance included Charles, lowering, defensive, unhappy. "But I am concerned," she said, "as much as ever. You should know that."