"Davitts hinted at an opening in a middle-western college," he said, finally. "Head of the department. I told him I was in line for promotion here, if I got this next book done this year. He seemed to think he had something better up his sleeve."
"Away from New York?"
"Ye-up." Charles was blandly indifferent. "Nothing definite, you know. Just hints."
"Would you even consider it?" Catherine's hands, even her hair against her fingers, felt cold.
"It never does any harm to let people offer you things. And I don't know—" He was drawing idle triangles on the manila covers of his lecture. "Sometimes a position like that means much more power, prominence, reputation, than anything here could. Would you mind?" He was eying her carefully. "Be better for the children." And after a pause. "Or would you have to stay here—for your job?"
"Have you just made this up—for a joke?" Catherine slipped to her feet. "Are you just teasing me?"
"Not a bit. That's what Davitts said."
"Charles!" Her fingers doubled into a fist at the edge of the desk. "Don't lurk around! Let's talk it out. You don't like it, my working? You"—she stared at him—"you don't mean you'd hunt for a job somewhere, in a little town, where I couldn't work, just to——"
"Good Lord! Now why go off at that tangent, just because I gave you a bit of news. Didn't I say I wanted you to have what you wanted?"
"But you don't like it, do you?"