"But she's not a physician." Catherine lifted one hand to her throat, pressing it against the sharp ache there. Poor Charles, he had been pounded. If he would only tell her! "No. But she's shrewd enough to see where her bread will be nicely buttered. She makes an excellent office girl. She--" He was defiant, aggressive. "You didn't ever like her. You'll probably be delighted to hear that she saw which way the wind blew, and even added some puffs of her own. Queering me. Flopping over the instant she saw her own advantage." That little squirrel smile! And the faint, distinct, metallic ring in her clear voice! Catherine saw her in the dusk of that passageway behind the gymnasium, holding the brown leather bag. I'm soft, she thought, to have no pleasure out of this. "Well?" demanded Charles. "You see where it leaves me. All this time wasted." "At least you have the material for your book." Catherine was dispassionately consoling. "And you have that almost done." "But I haven't. It's clinic material. I can't publish it now. It belongs to them." "Charles!" "Exactly. She did part of the work, Miss Partridge. She wants that for Dr. Beck. The committee wants the rest, for its clinic as at present established." "That's outrageous." "I could put out a book from my own notes. But it wouldn't mean anything. No authority behind it. No, I'm done with them. Done." "At least"--Catherine felt slowly for words--"you have your university work. That's the main thing. That hasn't been touched." "Hasn't it, though?" Charles was grim. "When I've spent all this time, on the score of a great contribution I was about to make!" "Does it hang up your promotion?" Catherine cried out. "It does. I heard that this morning, indirectly." Catherine pulled herself to her feet and stood beside him, hesitantly brushing his hair, moving her finger down to the deep crease between his eyes. "See here," she said, lightly. "You aren't so done for as all that. You know it." He thrust his arm violently around her, drew her down to the arm of the chair, his head pressing into her shoulder. "And you weren't here!" he cried. "There was no one----" "Poor boy." Her hand touched his head, softly, sensitive to the crispness of his heavy hair. "You haven't cared what happened to me." His words came muffled. "Oh, haven't I?" Her fingers crept down to his cheek. "Perhaps I have." "Haven't shown it much." He lifted his face from her shoulder. In the instant before she bent to kiss him, there was a scurry of thoughts through her mind--leaves lifted in a puff of wind: He is contrite about Stella Partridge. He can't say that he is. He thinks I don't know about her. No use in airing that. He is through, and unhappy, and I love him. "Let's not talk any more to-night," she said. "Lots of days coming to talk in. Spencer is well, and we are here, together." IX