"Mrs. Hammond is punctilious."
Catherine withdrew a step. If Charles added another word—she could hear the rest of his sentence, about her leaving them all day! But he merely added, "Would you care to go, Miss Partridge?"
"Ought you to leave Mrs. Hammond, if the baby is ill?"
"It's always a relief to be rid of a disappointed man, Miss Partridge." Catherine was thinking: how disdainful that cold, hard voice makes her words sound! "Letty isn't seriously ill, but I want the doctor to look at her. I shall be happier here."
Miss Partridge seated herself in the living room, and Catherine, after a glance at Letty, and a moment of search for the tie Charles wished, sat down opposite her. She was charming to look at, Catherine realized; a soft, fawn colored suit, exquisitely tailored over her slender, sloping shoulders; a long brown wing across the smart fawn hat, a knot of orange at her throat. She drew off her wrinkled long gloves, and revealed a heavy topaz on her little finger.
"Your work, Mrs. Hammond? You are finding it interesting?"
"Very." Catherine felt as expansive as an exposed clam.
"Mr. Hammond was saying you had some kind of educational research in hand."
"Yes." Was that Letty, crying? Charles came in, rubbing his sleeve over his hat.
"I don't need glad rags, do I, since you aren't in evening dress?"