The elevator was slow. Charles laid a vindictive thumb on the button; below them the signal snarled.
"Sam's probably at the switchboard," said Catherine, coldly.
"He won't be, long!" Charles pressed harder.
Catherine turned away, her fingers busy with the snaps of her gloves. The tips were powdery and worn; another cleaning would finish this pair. If Charles wanted to be childish, venting spite on anything— A clatter and a creaking of cables behind the iron grill.
"If you prefer to stay with Bill, why come?"
Catherine's jerk rent the soft kid. The snap dangled by a shred. The door slammed open and they stepped into the car.
Sam was explaining to Charles. In the narrow corner mirror Catherine could see the line of Charles's cheek bone, the corner of his mouth. Poor man! He was in a humor. Well, he could stay there! She wouldn't cajole him out of it; he could wait till she did! It was always she who had to make the overture. Charles sat sulkily down in the swamp of ill feeling and wouldn't budge.
"It's stopped snowing." She lifted her face to the steel plate of sky overhead.
"Temporarily." Charles strode along with great steps. "Here, take my arm." He stopped at the corner.
"Have to keep my gloves fresh." Catherine hurried across the slippery cobblestones. As they climbed up past the dark chapel, she squirmed inside her coat. How ridiculous they were, going along in a pet, like children. Bill would laugh, if he knew. The long windows of the law library dropped their panels of light across the thin snow. When we reach the library steps, thought Catherine, I'll say, let's be good. Only—why must I always be abject, and ingratiating? Again that streak of hard, ribald mockery: let him sulk if he likes. I'm tired of being humble. Below them the wide sweep of steps, the bronze figure aproned with snow; the dignified weight of the building rising above them, the recessed lights glowing behind the columns. How many times they had walked together across these steps!