"Lef' his number. I put it on the pad."
Catherine flew into the study, deaf to Letty's shrill call. It was the Bureau. Her voice, repeating the number, was imperative. She had forgotten that Dr. Roberts might call. The whir of the unanswered instrument pounded on her ear drum. After one. The Bureau was deserted. What would he think! Why, it looked—she pushed the telephone away, dull color sweeping up to her hair. It looked as if she had lied. But it had been so late when Henrietta had come that any thought of the conference had been worn down. She would have to explain, Monday, as if she had been caught malingering.
"Hello." Charles stood at the door, uncertainty in his greeting. "What's the verdict? Pest house?"
"No." Catherine was jamming the whole dreadful morning out of sight, stamping on the cover—"Henry says it was just indigestion. She's all right."
"Did you get down to your meeting?"
Catherine shook her head.
"Now that's a shame," Charles advanced tentatively. "I hoped Henry would come in time."
Easy to say that now, thought Catherine. Then—I won't be ugly. I can't endure it.
"I felt an awful brute." Charles threw his arm over her shoulders. "But you saw how it was."