Charles was echoing that old custom. But he didn't realize it. And Catherine thought, with a stabbing bitterness, "He has this feeling of comfort, not because we are here together, but because the evening has pleased him." "What do you think is Bill's secret, then?" Charles broke out. "He's thinking of something else, not of that; he's keeping me off his real center," hurried Catherine's thoughts. "I won't be horrid and cross." "Isn't it lack of conceit?" She reached for the heavy frying pan. "Most of us have to talk to assert ourselves, to make folks listen to us. Bill hasn't any ego----" "Oh, he's got one, all right." Charles balanced the pile of dishes precariously near the edge of the table. "Looks more conceited just to sit around with that cryptic expression----" "I don't think so!" Catherine scrubbed vigorously at the sink. "He never looks critical." "Couldn't get a harsh word out of you about Bill, could I?" Charles jested a little heavily. "He's always been that way, ever since he was a kid." "Now when Miss Partridge"--Catherine resisted the impulse to say "your Miss Partridge"--"when she is silent, she looks too superior for words." "Nonsense! I felt you were misjudging her. Now, she's awake, ready to talk----" "About herself." "Meow!" Charles grinned. "Though we did talk a good deal about the work. But, of course, that's only natural." "She didn't even see me until Henrietta pointed at me and yanked me out of the pigeon-hole where she had me stuck." "I hope you aren't going to dislike her, Catherine." Charles was serious. "Since I have to see her in connection with the clinic, it might be awkward----" "Thank the Lord, those are done!" Catherine turned from the sink. "Don't worry, old thing," she said, lightly. "I don't hate her. We never have insisted on love me, love all my dogs, you know." "I thought you'd appreciate her." Charles was sulky. "She's extremely handsome." "She's as warm hearted as she is brilliant, too." "Like a frog, she is!" thought Catherine. But she reached for the button and snapped out the light. "I'll hurry with my shower," she said, preceding him up the hall. "Then you can have the tub. It's late." The bathroom was littered with the children's discarded clothes. Little sluts! thought Catherine, gathering socks and shirts and bloomers. My fault, I suppose. I can't make 'em neat! Like a nice warm tub myself, she growled, but Charles is waiting. Someone's always waiting.