"Partly. Partly just the current fad for anything psychological, and then the clinic behind the book is a factor." "And you have the book--is it half done?" "It's getting along." Charles had drawn in his lower lip and was chewing it thoughtfully. "The clinic is furnishing material. I've been wondering. Of course Miss Partridge did the organizing there, and she's done most of the tabulating of results. She suggested that we collaborate on a book. What would you think of such a scheme?" "I'd think," cried Catherine in a flash of irritation, "that it was pure silk for Miss Partridge! That clinic was your scheme, not hers, and----" "I haven't committed myself." Charles busied himself with a pile of dishes on the shelf, rearranging them critically. His expansiveness contracted visibly. "You needn't be so sure I'd agree with her. I might give her a chapter to do." "Why doesn't she write her own books?" "She isn't that type, the type that seeks expression, I mean. She is the competent, executive type. It seems a pity for her not to assemble her results." In silence Catherine hung away the dish-pan and scrubbed the sink. Be careful, she warned herself. Don't be cattish; this may be entirely reasonable. "I'm sorry you don't like her." Charles was solemn. "She thinks you are an unusually sweet----" "She does! She little knows." Catherine grasped desperately for the fraying thread of control. After all, why shouldn't they write a book together? She turned quickly, to find Charles eying her with a cautious, investigatory stare. "You know--" she grinned at him. "I may write a book with Dr. Roberts. He was looking over my notes yesterday, and he thinks we can find a firm to publish the report, as a marketable book. Of course, the Bureau puts out a report, too." A thin veil of blankness drew itself over the curiosity in Charles's face. Before he spoke, however, the bell in the hall sounded. "Company to-night!" Catherine drooped. "I'm worn to a frazzle." It was Margaret; her gay, "Hello, King Charles!" floated reassuringly to Catherine, dabbing powder hastily on her nose, brushing back her hair from her forehead. "I brought my partner in to meet you two. Amy, this is the King, and my sister, Catherine--Amy Spurgeon."