"She'll be along."
Spencer looked up from his books.
"I think Daddy ought to stay home if you have to," he said, frowning.
"Daddy isn't any use if the children are sick," announced Marian, with dignity. "Is he, Muvver?"
"Not as a nurse," said Catherine. "But he's a great comfort to me, you know."
"How?" Spencer was still accusing.
"Just being." Catherine smiled at him. Spencer had a curious way of reaching out, thrusting fine feelers about him, investigating subtleties of relationship. He was staring at her intently, as if he pondered her last words. Then with a sigh, postponing judgment, he closed his book.
"My home work's all done, and I did it alone, because Letty is sick. Is that a comfort to you, Mother?"
"It is." Catherine was grave.
When they had gone to bed, Marian in Catherine's room, so that Letty would not disturb her, Catherine moved restlessly about the apartment. She was thinking about them, her children. What they needed. More than food and shelter, more than physical safety. They needed a safety in the feeling around them. A warm, clear sea, in which they could float, unaware that the sea existed. Tension, ugly monsters, frighten them, disturb them out of their own little affairs. Spencer especially, but Marian, too. Letty was such a baby, still, but she was growing; she was still turned inward. Catherine wandered to the door and listened. She was breathing too rapidly. If Henry would only come!