How still and empty the house lay about her! Perhaps Charles was even then on his way home--she had a swift picture of him at the window of the train, hurling toward her.
Ridiculous to feel so tired. She stretched her arms above her head, and then reached for the darning ball. Henrietta had said, "Don't weaken. You'll find the first stages of adjustment the most difficult." True, all right. The texture of her days rose before her, a series of sharp images. Morning, an incredible packing of the two hours: breakfast, the three children to bathe and help dress, Miss Kelly arriving like clockwork to supervise the final departure for school, Catherine's hasty glimpse at her face, flushed under the brim of her hat, before she hurried out for the elevator. Then the bus ride; herself a highly conscious part of the downward flood of workers, the fluster of the morning dropping away before the steady rise of that inner self, calm, clear, deliberate. The office--deference in the manner of the stenographers--she was the only woman there with her own office, with a man-size job. Occasional prickings of her other life through that life--eggs she had forgotten to order. The ride home again, the warm cheeks and soft hands of the children, and their voices, eager to tell her a thousand things at once. Dinner, and Charles. What about Charles? Her fingers paused over the crossing threads of the darn. He had been busy with crowds of new students and opening classes. Under that, what? She fumbled in her mist of images. She had scarcely seen him, except at dinner. Usually he had a string of stories about the day. He had gone back to the office two evenings, and to Washington on Friday. She didn't know much about his week. Had he withheld it? Had she been too engrossed?
The telephone in the study rang. Catherine hurried. Perhaps it was Charles.
"This is Mrs. Hammond." That clear, metallic voice! "Dr. Hammond is out of town."
"Oh, yes. I thought he might be back. Would you give him a message for me? Miss Partridge. Please ask him to call me as soon as he comes in."
"Certainly." Catherine waited, but the only sound was the click of the telephone, terminating the call.
"Well!" Catherine sat down at the desk. Now, there's nothing to be irritated about, she told herself. Her eyes traveled over the bookshelves, low, crowded, piled with monographs and reviews. That curtness is part of her pose--manlike. But she certainly hits my negative pole!