"Spencer sent you his regards, Bill. He wished me to tell you that he thought the cows recovered from the alarm your car caused them." Bill removed his pipe, a slow smile on his gaunt face. "What cows?" demanded Charles. "Ghost cows, Charles. Not in your lexicon. But we felt them in that old barn, behind those stanchions." When they had gone, Charles followed Catherine into the dining room, gathered a handful of coffee cups, and walked after her into the disorderly kitchen. "What'd you think of her?" he asked, casually. "Her being the cat?" Catherine grinned at him. She was at ease again, confident, the sense of nonentity gone. "Oh, Stella Partridge, of course. Fine person, isn't she! No nonsense about her. Mind like a man's." "Is it?" Catherine stacked the dishes in the sink. "Has the qualities which are conventionally labeled masculine. Like that better?" The clatter of the garbage pail cover served for Catherine's answer. "Bill's a queer duck, now, isn't he?" Charles lolled against the table, his long body making a hazardous oblique angle. "Never can make up my mind whether it's shyness or laziness." "I don't think it's either of those things, if you mean his lack of loquaciousness." "Loquaciousness!" Charles threw back his head in a laugh. "That's some word to use about Bill!" "I suppose I might as well wash these confounded dishes to-night." Catherine turned the faucet and the water splashed into the sink. "Where's your dusky maiden?" "To-morrow's Sunday." "Oh, say, it's too bad I brought a guest in to-night, eh?" Charles waited comfortably for her assurance that it wasn't too bad. "We'd hate the mess in the morning," was Catherine's dry retort. Charles was in extraordinary humor, the purring kind, thought Catherine, as her hands moved deftly among the dishes. And I'm not. I feel as if I should like to yell! She bent more swiftly to her task. Charles straightened his long angle and reached for a dish towel. He needn't be magnanimous about wiping dishes! As he rubbed the towel round and round a plate, he began to sing. Somewhere--rub--the sun--rub--is shi-i-ining--rub! And Catherine had, suddenly, a flash of a picture, smarting in her throat. The shabby little flat where they had first lived, before Spencer was born; Charles wiping the dishes, singing, and Catherine singing with him, ridiculous old hymns and sentimental tunes. And always after the occasional guests had gone, the "gossip party," as they labeled it, speculation, analysis, discussion of the people who had gone, friendly, shrewd, amusing, ending when the dish towel was flapped out and the dish-pan stowed under the sink with the ritualistic but none the less thrilling, "There's no one can touch my girl for looks or charm or brains!" and Catherine's, "I'm sorry for everyone else--because they can't have you!"