Were those girls listening? The georgette one was eying Margaret. The other, her retouching finished, snapped her handbag shut and began a story about the movies last night. Catherine was hungry; good soup--why, it was fun to gather an unplanned luncheon on a tray in this way. "Your old job?" proceeded Margaret. "A new study--teaching conditions in some middle-western states. I am to organize the work." Margaret's questions were direct, inclusive. She did have a clear mind. Her business training has rubbed off all the blurry sentiment she used to have, thought Catherine. "And you can manage the family as well?" "This woman Henrietta sent me is fine. It's a rush in the morning, baths and breakfast. Flora can't come in until eight, and I have to get away by half past eight. No dawdling." "And the King doesn't mind?" Catherine flushed. Margaret had dubbed Charles the King years ago, but the nickname had an irritating flavor. "He's almost enthusiastic this week," she said. "Now tell me about yourself. What's this about your leaving Mother?" "Oh, I thought she might like to stay with George. Instead of that, she's turned me out, neck and crop, and taken on a lady friend. I'm house-hunting." Margaret laughed. "Trust Mother! You can't dispose of her." "But I thought you were so comfortable----" "Too soft. You don't know--" Margaret was serious. "I can't be babied all my life. All sorts of infantile traits sticking to me. You got away." "Mother said you'd been reading a foreigner named Freud." "Well!" Margaret was vigorously defensive. "What of it?" Catherine dug her fork into the triangle of cake. "I thought Freud was going out. Glands are the latest." "I bet Charles said that." Margaret grinned impishly as she saw her thrust strike home. "Well, tell him I'm still on Freud. Anyway, I want to try this. Amy and I want to live together. When you wanted to live with Charles, you went and did it, didn't you?" "I'm not criticizing you, Marge. Go ahead! Don't bristle so, or I'll suspect you feel guilty." "I do." Margaret had a funny little smile which recognized herself as ludicrous. "That's just the vestige of my conflict." "There's another influx"--Catherine looked at the moving line--"we'd better give up these seats." "There are chairs yonder." They wound between the tables to the other end of the room, where wicker chairs and chaise longues, screens, tables, and a mirror suggested the good intentions of the patronesses of the St. Francis Club. "You can lie down behind the screen if you're dead, or read"--Margaret flipped a magazine--"read old copies of respectable periodicals. Here." She motioned to a chaise longue. "Stretch out. I'll sit at your feet. I have a few seconds left." "How's the job?"