"Here, run along, you two." She lifted her head and looked at Bill, smiling at her. "I've nothing to do. Let me sit here and read."
"We can't impose on you that way—" began Charles.
"Of course we can!" Catherine tinkled, hundreds of tiny bells at all her nerve ends. "Of course! Come on, Charles."
As Charles stamped into his overshoes, Catherine ran back to the living room. Bill stood at the table, poking among the magazines.
"Thank Heaven you came just then!" she said, softly. "Oh, Bill!"
"What is this momentous occasion, anyway?"
"A faculty reception. It's not that. I'm an erring wife and mother." His glance steadied her, stopped that silly tinkling. "Spencer ran away and I forgot to send word for Miss Brown to come in, and—" That wordless quiet of his enveloped her, like a deep pool in which she relaxed, set free from the turmoil of the past hours. "If I could stay here with you!"
"Are you about ready?" Charles asked crisply.
Had Bill lifted his hand in a heartening gesture, or had she imagined it?