Catherine looked silently at Bill, as he took her hand for a brief moment. She hadn't seen him for weeks; he had been out of town again. His glance was grave, a little pleased. "Tell them your news, Bill." "Oh"--he shook out his napkin--"I'm off to South America next week, to build a bridge." Henrietta explained. Huge engineering project, throwing a link across mountains, a road for commerce. Difficult enough to interest even a clam like Bill. Catherine listened rather vaguely; Bill was moving his knife, his salt, his roll, to illustrate. Saves hundreds of miles in shipping, you see, if the thing can be done. A straight line from the interior. "How long will it take?" "Can't tell exactly until I see the ground. Perhaps a year. Or longer." Catherine flung her glance at Henrietta, and found her watching Bill, her blue eyes calmly reflective. Not a trace of dispute, not a faint echo of bitterness, although Henrietta was looking less at Bill than back into whatever secret, intimate hour of decision lay behind the present announcement. This was what Henrietta had meant. That Bill would go alone if he wished, not for an instant expecting Henrietta to drop her life and follow. "And you're just staying here?" Charles was naïve, surprised. "Naturally." Henrietta grinned at him. "I can't move my practice. It's a long time, but perhaps one of us can wriggle in a vacation." "Well!" Charles leaned back. "If my wife----" he broke off, suspiciously. "Henrietta might reasonably object to being deserted," said Bill quietly. "But she's good enough to see why I wish to go." Charles paused an instant over that, and then with a shrug came out on clear, safe ground with a question about the work. Catherine listened. She was tired. Her thoughts crawled obscurely, undirected, in a fog of weariness. Charles would pull her along by a heartstring, Henrietta said. Probably. She lacked that cold singleness which Henrietta kept. But Bill never tried to pull Henry by a heartstring. He hid away from her. "You're not eating a thing, Cathy," said Henrietta. "Too much packing, I suppose. I hope you'll loaf for a while. Do you have the same woman who took us for peddlars?" "I think so." Catherine stared out of her fog. "Amelia will have the house opened and ready. Catherine can loaf all summer." Charles was hearty, assured. "It's been a hard winter, some ways." The talk went on, with coffee and cheese, and Catherine drifted again in her fog. Perhaps one person always hides away. Bill had said something about that, once. In every combination of people, one hides. But if you hide away, then you shouldn't sulk. Play fair. Dinner was over. Time to go. Henrietta, regretfully, explained that she couldn't go to the station. A case. Bill would walk over. "I shall miss you, Cathy." They stood at the entrance of the hotel. "And the children. Bill gone, too. I'll have to work like fury."