"Oh, yes, Miss Betts. I wanted you to take these letters." She bent swiftly to her work.
She grimaced wryly as she was jammed and pushed through the door into the crowded local. Shoving feet, jostling bodies, wrists at the level of her eyes. Hairy wrists, chapped thin wrists, fat wrists, grubby, reaching up for straps; and the horrid odor of dirty wool, damp from the snow. A wrench, a grinding, and the terrific, clattering roar of the homeward propulsion began. She longed for the quiet isolation of the hour on top of the bus, in which she could swing into fresh adjustment. Lucky that heads were smaller than shoulders and set in the middle. The figure against her began to squirm, and her swift indignant glance found a folded newspaper worming up before her eyes. Friday, December 9. She stared at the date, its irking association just eluding her. The 9th. She set her lips in dismay as she caught her dodging thought. That reception, to-night! She had meant to buy fresh net for her dress, her one black evening dress—and Margaret's appearance had driven it out of her head. No room for her abortive shrug. Well, probably fresh net would have fooled no one.
At the sound of her key in the door, Marian rushed through the hall. Catherine, shivering a little at the sudden warmth after the windy blocks from the subway, bent to kiss her.
"Muvver!" Marian's eyes were roundly horrified. "Spencer's run away. We can't find him anywhere!" Her voice quavered. "He's lost himself!"
"What do you mean!" Catherine thrust her aside and ran through the hall. Letty was clattering busily around the edge of the living room rug on her go-duck. "Where's Miss Kelly?"
"Kelly gone. Spennie gone. Daddy gone." Chanted Letty, urging her steed more violently.
"Flora!" Catherine went toward the kitchen, to meet Flora, her mouth wide and dolorous.
"He's done eluded 'em, Mis' Hammond," she said. "They been hunting hours an' hours."
"What happened?" Catherine was cold in earnest now, a gasping cold that settled starkly about her heart.