"All right. I spent the morning hunting for a girl. She's been rousing my suspicions for a time. Going to have an infant soon. That's the third case in two months." Margaret clasped her hands about her knees; her short skirt slipped up to the roll of her gray silk stocking. "But I've got a woman who'll take her in. She can do housework for a month or so before she'll have to go to the lying-in home." Catherine watched her curiously. There was something amazing about the calm, matter-of-fact attitude Margaret held. "Do you hunt for the father?" "Oh, the girl won't tell. Maybe she doesn't know." "If I had your job, I'd waste away from anger and rage and hopelessness about the world." "No use." Margaret shrugged. "Wish I could smoke here. Too pious. No." She turned her face toward her sister, her eyes and mouth dispassionate. "Patch up what can be patched, and scrap the rest. I'm sick of feelings." Catherine was silent. Margaret, as the only woman in a responsible position in a chain of small manufacturing plants, occasionally dropped threads which suggested fabrics too dreadful to unravel. "Time's up." Margaret rose. "Directors' meeting this afternoon, and I want to bully that bunch of stiff-necked males into accepting a few of the suggestions I've made. I have a fine scheme." She laughed. "I make a list pages long, full of things, well, not exactly preposterous. Women would see them all. But they sound preposterous. And buried somewhere I have the one thing I'm hammering on just then. Sometimes I get it, out of their dismay at the length of the list." "Here, I may as well go along." Catherine slid out of the chair. "Will you be home Sunday?" Margaret stopped at the corner. Catherine had a fresh impression of her invincible quality, there in the sunlight with the passing crowds. "Charles is in Washington. Come in and see the children." "The King's away, eh?" Margaret waved her hand in farewell. "I'll drop in." * * * * *