"No. I eavesdropped on them." Again that heavy, troubled look. "I heard them—breathe."
What in that phrase had such poignancy? What in the silence swung a light close to the dark, unruffled surface of this man, illuminating, far down in deep water, that struggling, twisting something?
He rose, brushing aside the curtain, to gaze out at the dim city.
"Better run along," he said, slowly. "You must be weary."
"Oh, no." Catherine's hand entreated him.
At that he turned slightly, to face her. She had a queer fancy that she saw his forehead gleam, his hair shine damp, as if he came swinging up, up to the surface. But he spoke calmly enough.
"I've been thinking over one of Henrietta's truisms, as I eavesdropped on your children. Wondering about it, and you."
Catherine was still; breathing might blur the glass, this glass through which she might have a clear glimpse of Bill.
"It is this." His smile, briefly sardonic, mocked at himself. "That children are the world's greatest illusion. The largest catch-penny life offers."