But under her lightness sounded a plunk, as of a stone dropping, a confirmation of a fear, as she saw the wary alertness on Charles's face vanish in quick relief. "Just through," he announced. "Come on in. It's curious, how stale these lectures seem, after a year. Have to refurbish them entirely." He slipped the sheets into a manila cover. "That one's ready, at least." Catherine sat on the corner of his desk, her fingers sliding through a strand of her hair. "Did you have a good trip?" she asked. Anything, to banish this separateness. "I haven't heard a word about it." "You weren't home. I was bursting with news this morning." "Can't you remember a little of it?" "I might try." Charles leaned back, his thumbs caught in his belt. As he talked, Catherine listened for the under-tones, so much more significant than the events. It had been a good trip. The men had received him rather flatteringly, praised his latest monograph, shown interest in the new psychological clinic. He had a comfortable, well-nourished look; around his eyes, with the prominent jutting of socket above, the lines were quite smoothed away. Catherine looked at him, at the strong, slightly projecting chin, at the smooth hard throat above the neat collar. "Davitts hinted at an opening in a middle-western college," he said, finally. "Head of the department. I told him I was in line for promotion here, if I got this next book done this year. He seemed to think he had something better up his sleeve." "Away from New York?" "Ye-up." Charles was blandly indifferent. "Nothing definite, you know. Just hints." "Would you even consider it?" Catherine's hands, even her hair against her fingers, felt cold. "It never does any harm to let people offer you things. And I don't know--" He was drawing idle triangles on the manila covers of his lecture. "Sometimes a position like that means much more power, prominence, reputation, than anything here could. Would you mind?" He was eying her carefully. "Be better for the children." And after a pause. "Or would you have to stay here--for your job?" "Have you just made this up--for a joke?" Catherine slipped to her feet. "Are you just teasing me?" "Not a bit. That's what Davitts said." "Charles!" Her fingers doubled into a fist at the edge of the desk. "Don't lurk around! Let's talk it out. You don't like it, my working? You"--she stared at him--"you don't mean you'd hunt for a job somewhere, in a little town, where I couldn't work, just to----" "Good Lord! Now why go off at that tangent, just because I gave you a bit of news. Didn't I say I wanted you to have what you wanted?" "But you don't like it, do you?" "Damn it, give me time to get used to it. It's all fired queer to go off without any one caring, and come back to a deserted house. I'll probably get used to it, but give me time." "Do you want me to give it up?" "Are you tired of it already?"