"Charles." She spoke impetuously. "Don't be cross. What's the use?"
"If you chose to project your own mood upon me—" Charles jerked his chin away from the folds of silk muffler.
"Oh, Lord!" sighed Catherine. "Don't we sound married!"
She could see the building now, with shadowy figures moving past the lighted windows. I can't be humble enough in that distance to do any good. What an evening!
It was like a nightmare, through which she moved as two people, one a cool, impersonal, outer self, given to chatter rather more than usual; the other a mocking, irreverent, twisting inner self, mewed up in confusion and injury. Empty, meaningless chatter. What fools people were, dragging themselves together in an enormous room, moving around, busy little infusoria. Charles liked it. He felt himself erect and important, with the crowding people a tangible evidence of his success, the decorum, the polished surfaces clinking out assurance that here was his group, here he was admitted, recognized. Catherine, bowing, smiling, listening to his voice, offering bright little conventional remarks, was conscious of his feeling. He's feeding on it, she thought. Growing smug. How far away from him I am—far enough to see him smug, and hate it. They had drifted away from the formal receiving line. She twisted at her glove, to hide the torn snap.
"Well, Mrs. Hammond!" Mr. Thomas was at her elbow, his thick glasses catching the light blankly, his head enormous above the rather pinched shoulders of his dress suit. "This is a pleasure." He shook her hand nervously, oppressed by his social obligation. "A pleasure."
Mrs. Thomas bustled up, crisp in rose taffeta, a black velvet ribbon around her pinkish, wrinkled throat.
"So long since we've seen you. We were just saying we must have you out for Sunday night supper. Walter does miss Spencer so much."
"That would be fine!" declared Charles, heartily. "I haven't forgotten that cake."