"Pardon me, please." Charles moved away, restrained eagerness in the forward thrust of his head above his broad, black shoulders. Catherine saw him edge past a group, saw a pearl-smooth shoulder above a jade-green velvet sheath. The Partridge, of course! What was she doing at a faculty reception? She had a glimpse of the squirrel smile, before she picked up the thread of Mrs. Thomas's domestic lyric. The Thomases wanted refreshments. Catherine's throat was sticky-dry at the thought of food. She had a sharp longing for her own living room and Bill. He could ease her of these innumerable prickings. She made her way to Charles, and then stood, unnoted, at his elbow. Miss Partridge saw her, and her hand swam up in a leisurely arc. Catherine nodded pleasantly. "I think I'll run along, Charles. You aren't to hurry." She drifted away before his hesitancy reached action. III Snow again in the air, wet on her cheeks. I am going home, to see Bill, in search of ballast. She hurried across the campus. The library windows were dark; two cleaning women, aprons bundled about their heads, clattered ahead of her with their pails. As she pushed open the apartment door, she saw Bill, standing at the doorway of Marian's room, indistinct in the shadow. He moved violently away. "Have the children been bothering you?" Catherine listened an instant at the door. Nothing but the faintest possible rhythm of breathing. "I thought I heard Letty call." Bill retreated into the living room. "Where's Charles? The party over?" "I ran away." Catherine slipped out of her coat. "Leaving him with Miss Partridge." She drew down her long gloves, laughing, and looked at Bill. Something curiously disturbed in his heavy-lidded glance. How tired and gaunt he looked. "What is it, Bill?" He waited until she had settled into the wing chair. "Nice dress, that," he said, as he sat down. "This?" She smiled at him. Her hands lay idly along folds of the black stuff. "Are you bored, sitting here alone? The children haven't really been awake, have they?" "No. I eavesdropped on them." Again that heavy, troubled look. "I heard them--breathe." What in that phrase had such poignancy? What in the silence swung a light close to the dark, unruffled surface of this man, illuminating, far down in deep water, that struggling, twisting something? He rose, brushing aside the curtain, to gaze out at the dim city. "Better run along," he said, slowly. "You must be weary." "Oh, no." Catherine's hand entreated him. At that he turned slightly, to face her. She had a queer fancy that she saw his forehead gleam, his hair shine damp, as if he came swinging up, up to the surface. But he spoke calmly enough. "I've been thinking over one of Henrietta's truisms, as I eavesdropped on your children. Wondering about it, and you." Catherine was still; breathing might blur the glass, this glass through which she might have a clear glimpse of Bill.