"That woman I spoke of, Stella Partridge, is mighty keen. She's working out an organization scheme that beats any plan I've seen. I tell you what, old girl, it's great to see the world wake up and swing around to asking for what you want to give it!" Charles cuffed at her foot. "Remember that first year down here? With Spencer a baby, and buying this old house a tremendous undertaking, and me writing a book that I didn't dare hope would sell? Things are different now, aren't they?"
"They are different." Catherine's voice hardened subtly. "I helped with that book, didn't I?"
"Jove! I should say you did. All that typing, and correcting, and then the proof reading."
"And now——" Catherine hesitated.
"Well, now my work has broadened out so much, and there are the three children. I can afford to hire the typing done now, eh what?"
"Yes."
"What's the matter with you, Catherine? You've had a kind of chip about you somewhere ever since I came this time. I can't help it if I can't spend all my time playing in the country with you and the children, can I? After all, I have to see to my work, and it's increasingly demanding."
"I haven't any chip on my shoulder, Charles?" Catherine caught her breath. "I do want to talk to you."
"Fire ahead." Charles tapped out the ashes from his pipe and reached up for her hand. "What's eating you?"
"Oh, Charles!" Catherine's slender fingers shut inside his warm palm. "Help me out! You ought to understand." Her laugh shivered off abruptly. "You know I'm proud of you, just puffed up. Do you know I'm jealous, too? Jealous as—as nettles!"