"I'm not asleep," she said, and blinked as he flashed on the light. "You must have had a good time, to stay so late."
"It's a pity you bothered to go at all," he said briefly, as he vanished behind the closet door.
Catherine turned away from the light, her hand closing into a fist under her cheek. She wouldn't wrangle, even if he was still out of sorts. She heard him padding about in stocking feet. He snapped off the light and scuffed down the hall. She heard him whistling. He would wake the children, if he weren't more careful.
He was back again, a stocky figure against the pale square of window as he shoved it open. He was scurrying for bed.
"Charles!" Catherine's cry leaped out. "Come here!"
"Well?" He stood above her. "Brr! It's chilly."
She reached up for his hands, dragged him down beside her, her arms slipping up to his shoulders, clasping behind his neck. He resisted her; she felt stubborn hardness in his muscles.
"Charles," she begged, "what's happening to us! Don't——"
"I'm all right," he said. "I thought you were off color."
Catherine let her hands drop forlornly away.