"Oh, Catherine! Henry got your message. She had to stop at the hospital first. She'll be in. Is Letty really sick?" "I hope not. But I need Henrietta's assurance." "She'll be along." Spencer looked up from his books. "I think Daddy ought to stay home if you have to," he said, frowning. "Daddy isn't any use if the children are sick," announced Marian, with dignity. "Is he, Muvver?" "Not as a nurse," said Catherine. "But he's a great comfort to me, you know." "How?" Spencer was still accusing. "Just being." Catherine smiled at him. Spencer had a curious way of reaching out, thrusting fine feelers about him, investigating subtleties of relationship. He was staring at her intently, as if he pondered her last words. Then with a sigh, postponing judgment, he closed his book. "My home work's all done, and I did it alone, because Letty is sick. Is that a comfort to you, Mother?" "It is." Catherine was grave. When they had gone to bed, Marian in Catherine's room, so that Letty would not disturb her, Catherine moved restlessly about the apartment. She was thinking about them, her children. What they needed. More than food and shelter, more than physical safety. They needed a safety in the _feeling_ around them. A warm, clear sea, in which they could float, unaware that the sea existed. Tension, ugly monsters, frighten them, disturb them out of their own little affairs. Spencer especially, but Marian, too. Letty was such a baby, still, but she was growing; she was still turned inward. Catherine wandered to the door and listened. She was breathing too rapidly. If Henry would only come! She sat down at the window, staring out at the dull yellow glow which held the city as a mass and dimmed the stars. You can't pretend for them, she thought. They catch the reality under the surface. But that perfect safety of feeling--who has it! She felt herself opposed to Charles, struggling with him, toward that intense calm that might hold the children free and unaware. Perhaps some women could attain that--she was abject, despairing--women who could lose their own struggling selves. But what then? The children grew up, and made their own circles, never reaching anything but this going-on. Surely somewhere, along the way, there should be something beside immolation for the future, otherwise why the future? Marian, Letty--I can't do it, she thought. Drown myself to make that quiet, white peace. I won't drown. I keep bobbing up, trying to be rescued. Something in me, shrieking. If I can rescue that shrieking something, and silence it, then surely there's more in me, more poise, more love, to wrap them--no, not wrap them, to float them in. If Charles will help!