"Is this the Dean's office?" Catherine smiled at her; something like Letty in the yellow hair, although the face was rather strained and thin. "I'm Mrs. Hammond, from the Lynch Bureau." "She'll be right in." The girl rose and opened the door into the adjoining office, as if in uncertainty. "She hasn't come down from class yet. If you'll sit down----" "Yes. Do you happen to know whether there is any mail for me here?" "I'll see." The girl had an awkward, half-suspicious way of staring. "Mrs. Charles Hammond?" she asked. Catherine sat down on a hard straight chair near the window; the girl's eyes were inquisitive, over the edge of her book. Catherine shuffled the envelopes hastily. Nothing from home. Strange--she had given them this address, and for this date. A bulky envelope from Dr. Roberts, a thin one from Henrietta. She tore open the flap of the latter, and let the round, jerky writing leap at her. Every one was well. Henrietta thought she might be interested in some hospital gossip. Stella Partridge had been doing some work for Dr. Beck, the psychiatrist, and had told several of the other doctors that she thought a medical man should be in charge of the clinic rather than a mere Ph. Doctor. "She says Beck has asked her to help him with a book, but I have a strong doubt. Has Charles found her out, do you suppose?" Catherine folded the latter, and tried to poke with it into its envelope the swirl of feeling it evoked. For a brisk little woman had darted into the office and at a word from the girl was darting now at her. "Mrs. Hammond? I'm Dean Snow. Come right in!" The pressure of her palm against Catherine's was like a firmly stuffed pincushion. "Has anyone else with a cold been in, Martha?" Catherine, passing ahead of the Dean into her office, caught the friendly softening in the voice of the girl as she answered, "No'm, not this morning. The plumber came, and I sent him over to the dormitory. He says that pipe is rusted and ought to come out. I told him he'd have to see you first." "That's right, Martha. And you got those letters off?" "Yes'm." "Good." She followed Catherine, closing the door. "Just have a chair, Mrs. Hammond." She whisked herself into place beside the old roll-top desk, her rotating office chair creaking as she settled down on its springs. A little cubby-hole of an office, with a sort of film of long use over the gray walls and painted floor, over the crammed pigeon holes of the desk, over the huge framed photographs--the "Acropolis," the "Porch of the Maidens," the "Sistine Madonna," and, above the desk, a faded group photograph of gentle faces above enormous puffed sleeves; in the corner a small hat-tree, from which a rusty umbrella dangled. "You teach, Miss Snow, in addition to being Dean?"