The next two weeks life was a shadow show outside that room where Spencer lay. "He must be kept flat and motionless," the surgeon said, with Dr. Henrietta nodding assent. "Even as he feels stronger." Catherine was concentrated entirely upon that. Everything reduced itself to terms of Spencer. Books that she might read to him, games she might devise, stories she could tell--anything to keep him content until it was safe for him to lift that bandaged, wounded head. Always there was the terror lest some sign of injury might show itself, some quirk in his mind, some change in personality, some flush to indicate fever and infection. "We think he has, miraculously, escaped any bad effects," said Henrietta, "but we can't be absolutely sure for a few days." At night, when he slept, Catherine would leave Charles in the house, and slip out for a quick walk in the cold March darkness. But terrifying images pursued her--sudden blackness shutting down over that shining, golden reality that was Spencer to her--and she would hasten back, unassuaged of her terror until she stood again at the door of his room. When her trunk came, she had rummaged through it, selecting all the material of her work, and sending it to Dr. Roberts with a brief note. "My son has been injured and I can do nothing more with this. If you can send someone else to finish the work, please do so. I can not even think of it for the present." There would come a day, she knew, when she could think again, a day when she would face the lurking shadows of her guilt, would determine what it meant. Not now. Not until Spencer was well. Charles was waiting, too, she knew. He was subdued, considerate, concerned lest she overtax herself. But he seemed one of the shadows in the outer world. Then Spencer lost his angelic patience, and began to fret humanly about lying flat in bed. "A few more days, Spencer." Henrietta smiled at him. "Then this crack in your head will be healed enough." "But I feel all right now." Fear, retreating, dragged away the distortion it had given, and gradually the shadows about Catherine grew three-dimensional again. Henrietta warned her: "You'll have a frightful slump, Catherine, unless you let yourself down easily, after this strain." "I don't feel tired, not at all." "That's the trouble. And you are. Rest more. Spencer doesn't need you every second now. Let Charles sleep here to-night." Catherine shook her head. "I sleep fairly well here, because I know I shall wake if Spencer stirs. Anywhere else I should lie awake, listening." "But he's safe now. I'm sure of that. The only danger, after the first, was infection. And that's past. Two more days and I'll let him up. I don't want you down." Henrietta paused, her fingers running along the black ribbon of her glasses. "When are you going back to work?" she flung out. A subtle change in Catherine's face, like the quick drawing of shades at all the windows of a house.