They had gone. It was nine, and no Dr. Henrietta. Catherine fastened a net carefully over her coiled hair, brushed her hat, poking at the limp bow of ribbon, and then went slowly to the study, where Charles was rummaging through a drawer of his desk.
"You have no classes this morning, have you?" she began.
"No, I haven't. Do you know where I put that outline Miss Partridge left?"
"Here it is." Catherine lifted it from beneath the evening paper. "Charles, Henry is coming in. She said as early as possible. I can't wait for her. Would you mind?"
"What's she coming for? Isn't Letty all right?"
"I don't know. She has a red spot. Henry thought she might have something—scarlatina——"
"I thought they'd had 'em all, those red diseases."
"Her fever is down. I think she's not sick. But Henrietta wanted to be sure. Would you mind—waiting till she comes?"
"Stay here this morning?" Charles looked up, an abrupt frown between his eyes. "I can't, Catherine. I can't play baby tender. I've got a meeting."