Quite suddenly relief came, like a warm rush of air, blowing her empty of battering thoughts. She had a vague sense of something under the cluttered feelings, something hard, clear, shapely, a self distinct from love and hate and jealousy and fear. She drifted just over the edge of consciousness. She was lost in a vast, dark labyrinth, through which she stumbled, hands extended in search of passageways; on and on she labored. Had she touched that wall before? Was she going in blind circles, with no egress? She was running, desperately--sleep closed around her. IV Dr. Roberts came gravely around the desk, shook Catherine's hand, and returned to his chair. "I must have been somewhat in doubt about your consent," he said, "since I am so delighted. You must see Dr. Waterbury to-day." "Just when do you think I should start?" Catherine sat erect, hard, bright triumph in her eyes. "Of course, there are various adjustments in my household to make." "The end of the month. You'll have this work in shape by that time." Dr. Roberts jumped to his feet. "I'll make that appointment with Waterbury myself. This is a good one on Smithson! He counted on your being merely half-hearted about the work." He went briskly out. Catherine's fingers moved idly among the pens and pencils on the tray. Behind her the winter sun made pale blotches on the floor. I've done it, she thought. It's only the beginning! If I hang on, things may work out. A flashing picture of Charles at breakfast, dignified, reticent. Even that! She wondered a little at herself. It's because I've found something beside feelings to live by, perhaps, and so I can endure feelings. I can wait. She brushed all that away, as with a quick gesture she pulled open the drawer and lifted out the pile of notes. Margaret telephoned. Would Catherine lunch that day with Amy and her? At Amy's luncheon club. Catherine made a note of the address. At quarter to one, sharp. Upstairs. We'll meet you there. They would be interested in her news. Approvingly interested. Discomfiting, how eagerly you ran to lap up little crumbs of approval. Get approval out of yourself, Henrietta had told her. Childish of her to crave it outside herself. As if, some way, she had to make up for Charles, to throw something into the other side of the scale along with her own conviction. She wanted Margaret's advice about shopping, too. New clothes. She would have to look her part.