"Oh, children." Margaret glanced through the wide doors. "Maybe I'll want some, some day. Nice little ducks. Now I've got Amy--and love enough to keep from growing stale. I want you to meet Amy some day." She rose, adjusting the brim of her wide purple hat. "Amy's waiting now. Tell Charles I'm longing for a glimpse of him." She made a humorous little grimace. "Want to see how he likes this new arrangement." Margaret telephoned for a taxi, and then hung over the children, offering impossible suggestions, until the hall boy announced her cab. Marian wanted to go down to the Drive, to jump. Catherine waved good-by to Margaret, her other hand restrainingly on Marian's shoulder. "Not Sunday afternoon, Marian. There are so many people down there, you'd jump right on their toes. You watch Spencer." The children played in reasonable quiet. Catherine finished her darning, her mind playing with the idea of the graphs she was working on. As she rolled up the last stocking, she wondered what she used to think about, as she sat darning or sewing. Nothing, she decided. Plain nothing. I could let my hands work, and my ears listen for the children, and the rest of me just stagnate. She delayed supper a little, hoping that Charles might come. She wasn't sure about the Sunday trains. Finally she gave the children their supper and put Letty to bed. Spencer was still engrossed in the construction of a building when Bill Gilbert came in. "Henrietta isn't here?" "No, but do come in." Catherine led him into the living room. "Is Henry coming?" "She had a call, and said she'd stop here on her way home." "Charles hasn't come yet. He's been in Washington since Friday." "Friday? I thought I saw him downtown, with Miss Partridge. He probably went later." "He went at one." "This couldn't have been Charles, then. It was about four. I thought their committee had been meeting. Hello, Spencer. What you doing?" Spencer had come in, his hands full of steel girders. "Mr. Bill, you're a nengineer, aren't you? Well, could you show me about this bridge?" More than an hour later, when Henrietta did come, Bill was stretched full length, his feet under the dining room table, his eyes on the level of the completed bridge, a marvelous thing of spans and girders, struts and tie-beams. "I'm too weary to stay, Cathy." Henrietta set her case on the table; her fair skin looked dusted over with fatigue. "Convulsions. One of those mothers who won't believe in diet or doctors for her child. The father sent for me. The child is alive in spite of her." "Do sit down and rest, at least." "No. I'm too ugly. Do you want to come, Bill, or are you staying?" Bill pulled himself awkwardly to his feet, one hand reaching for his pipe. "This piece of work is done," he said, smiling down at Spencer's engrossed head. "I've had a fine evening, Catherine."