"You see--" Catherine looked down at the pink blotch of Ohio, under the firm, square forefinger. "I must believe in what I'm doing. I can't just do it to earn a living." "Naturally. I understand that." "The work I did during the war was obviously of use. The plans for reeducation were fairly snatched out of our hands before the ink was dry on them." "Yes. An immediate need like that is, as you say, obvious. Easy to believe in. Like baking bread for hungry people." "I carried over that belief to the Bureau as a whole, I think. Then--I suppose from criticism that I heard--I wondered whether we fooled ourselves." "I think not, Mrs. Hammond. Perhaps our report won't revolutionize the whole educational system of several states overnight. You don't expect that. But it may affect even a single man, and that's something." He stroked his beard, watching her a little anxiously. "There is just one criticism which has bothered me," he added. "That concerns policy. After all"--his wave indicated the Bureau, established, respectable, heavily done in mahogany--"biting the hand that feeds us, you know. We may be tied too firmly to the social forces that make this possible. I don't know. What I offer myself for consolation is this: there's no such thing as complete freedom. If we can clear away any of the debris and old pitfalls in education, we may at least leave the next generation less obstructed. We are no more limited in policy than churches or colleges. We don't have to lick the hand that feeds us, at any rate." "Well--" Catherine smiled. "I won't be doubtful, then. I want to be enthusiastic." And as Dr. Roberts returned to the study of the maps and time tables, she thought: he may be right, and Charles may be right. Each of them thinks from his own center. From his own desires. So do I. And I want this work to have a meaning. To be significant. To _matter_. I believe it does. I _will_ believe in it. VII Saturday afternoon Catherine stood in front of the long mirror in her bedroom, with Margaret squatting on her heels beside her, pinning in place a band of bright embroidery. "Too bad there isn't time to send it back." Margaret dropped to the floor, gazing up at her sister. "But that will do, I think. It's very smart, Cathy." "Can we pack it so that it won't crush?" Catherine brushed her fingers over the warm brown duvetyn. "I scarcely recognize myself." "It's the way you should look all the time. Take it off and I'll put a stitch in where that pin is." Margaret scrambled to her feet. "I did want you to have that beaver coat, though." "I've got to pay for these sometime!" Catherine slipped out of the dress. "You beguiled me into awful extravagance."