She was half conscious, all through the night, of the emptiness of his bed, opposite hers. Once she woke, thinking she heard the door click. She sprang up in bed to listen. Nothing but the constant, faint cacophony of city sounds. It must be almost morning—that was the rattle of ash cans.
III
Astonishing how much less hurried the morning seemed, with no Charles shaving in the bathroom, shouting out inquiries about his striped shirt, his bay rum—he had a blind spot for the thing he wanted at the moment. We need two bathrooms, thought Catherine. I've spoiled Charles. Breakfast, too, was more leisurely; none of the last-minute scramble, no sudden longing for crisp bacon, after the toast was made and the eggs were boiled. There was time, actually, for a manicure. Flora appeared promptly at eight, her Monday face lugubrious.
"Sunday's fearful exhausting, Mis' Hammond," she said, as Catherine finished the consultation about dinner. "It's the most exhaustin'est day us working women has, I thinks."
"And when Mr. Hammond comes, be sure to ask him if he wishes breakfast, Flora. He may have had it on the train."
"Sure, I'll ask him. You run along and quit your worry, Mis' Hammond."
Catherine, hurrying across the Drive for the bus, was worried. She felt almost guilty: first, because the morning rush had been so lightened; and then, because she was going off, downtown, just as if Charles scarcely existed. She had laid out fresh clothes for him, on his bed, but she knew how he would rush in, full of pleasant importance from the trip, wanting to shout bits of it to her while he splashed and shaved and dressed, wanting her to sit down for a late cup of coffee while he talked. If only he had come home yesterday! Well, to-night would have to serve, although by evening there would be the film of the day over that first sharpness of communication.
At the door of her office she paused, her fingers on the key. She must leave, outside the door, this faint guilt which tugged at her. She had wasted that hour on the bus. The order and quiet within were like a rebuke. She crossed to the window and raised the heavy sash. The cool bright morning air rushed in with a little flutter of the papers on the desk. Across the street and a story lower, behind great plate-glass windows, she could see busy little men hurrying about, lifting the white dust covers from piles of dark goods: that was an elaborate tailoring establishment, just waking into activity. Her desk had a fresh green blotter, a pile of neatly sharpened pencils, and her mail—C.S. Hammond. Extraordinary, this having things set in order without your own direction! She might call up the house, to see if Charles had come. But surely he would telephone.
Dr. Roberts came briskly in. She was to have a new filing cabinet, he wanted her to meet the stenographer she was to share with him; the President of the Bureau would be in that morning, and wished to talk with her for a few minutes.
President Waterbury was a large and pompous gentleman who used his increasing deafness as a form of reproach to his subordinates. Catherine, sitting calmly near his massive mahogany desk, nodded at intervals in response to his grave, deliberate remarks. Her work during the war had convinced Dr. Roberts of her ability, hem, hem, although that had been on a social study, and this was, hem, educational. Since Mrs. Lynch, one of the founders of the Bureau, was a woman, it was peculiarly fitting to place a competent woman in charge of one of their many investigations. Ah, hem. A pleasure to welcome her there. Serious concern, this administering of responsibility. He was dismissing her with an elegant gesture of his old white hand, its blue veins so abruptly naked between the little tufts of hair.