Then Charles had called sharply, "Catherine! Are you dressing?" and she had, under pressure, resorted to a threat. She was ashamed of it. She drew on the other stocking, smoothing it regretfully. She had said, "If you won't promise to come home directly, I shall ask Miss Kelly to call for you at school." Charles came in, bay rum and powder wafted with him, his face pink and solemn. "Oh, I haven't put in your studs--" She made a little rush for his dresser, but he brushed her away. "Please don't bother. You're not ready yourself." Catherine stifled an hysterical giggle. Emotion in these costumes--Charles in barred muslin underwear, his calves bulging above his garters, and she in silk chemise--was funny! She lifted her black dress from its hanger and slipped it over her head. Well, it had dignity, of a dowdy sort, if it wasn't fresh. She stood in front of the long mirror, trying to crisp the crumpled net of the long draped sleeves. Her fingers caught; she had pumiced too hard at the ink on their tips--hollows at the base of her throat--try to drink more milk. Her skin had pale luster, against the black, but her face lacked color. "If this weren't a faculty party," she said, lightly, "I'd try rouge." "Why doesn't that girl come?" asked Charles, his voice muffled by the elevation of his chin as he struggled with his tie. "Time, I should think." "What girl?" Catherine turned from the mirror. "Oh--" her shoulders sagged in complete dismay. "Miss Brown. You got her, didn't you?" Catherine, a whirl of black net, was at the telephone. How could she have forgotten! "No, Morningside!" She waited. She had called once, that morning, and Miss Brown was out. She had meant--"Is Miss Brown in?" Charles was at the door, an image of funereal, handsome dignity. Miss Brown was not in. No, the voice had no idea when she would be in. "Oh, say it!" Catherine's fingers pushed recklessly through her hair. "Say it, Charles!" He swung on his heel and disappeared. Perhaps her mother--but no one answered that call, and Catherine remembered that Friday was the night for opera. A voice in the hall, although she hadn't heard the doorbell. It was Bill. "Going out, eh?" "Apparently not." Charles was elaborately, fiendishly jovial. "I thought we were, but Catherine neglected to provide a chaperone for the children." Catherine pressed her fingers against her warm cheeks. Her quick thought was: just Bill's entrance scatters this murky, ridiculous tension. This ought to be a joke, not a tragedy. "Here, run along, you two." She lifted her head and looked at Bill, smiling at her. "I've nothing to do. Let me sit here and read." "We can't impose on you that way--" began Charles. "Of course we can!" Catherine tinkled, hundreds of tiny bells at all her nerve ends. "Of course! Come on, Charles." As Charles stamped into his overshoes, Catherine ran back to the living room. Bill stood at the table, poking among the magazines.