Bill pulled himself awkwardly to his feet, one hand reaching for his pipe.
"This piece of work is done," he said, smiling down at Spencer's engrossed head. "I've had a fine evening, Catherine."
He had. When they had gone, and Catherine was supervising the children's preparations for bed, she still had the feeling of the evening; she had pulled her chair into the dining room, to watch them; Bill had looked up at her at long intervals, with a faint, queer smile in his eyes; he had said nothing, except to offer solemn, technical advice, simplified to meet Spencer's eagerness.
"I'm going to be a nengineer," said Spencer sleepily, as she bent over him. "An' build things."
"I want to be one, too," called Marian.
"You can't! You're only a girl."
"Mr. Bill said I could if I wanted to. He said I could be anything."
"So you can." Catherine tucked her in gently. "But you have to go to sleep first."
At eleven Catherine telephoned to the station, to ask about trains from Washington. No express before morning. Charles wouldn't take a local; he must have decided to take a sleeper. She set the sandwiches she had made for him away in the ice chest. No use worrying. She had to have some sleep, for to-morrow. Had Bill seen him, Friday afternoon? She hated the queer way waiting held you too tight, as if you were hung up by your thumbs. Charles might have wired her. But he knew she never meant to worry.