"Why doesn't she write her own books?"
"She isn't that type, the type that seeks expression, I mean. She is the competent, executive type. It seems a pity for her not to assemble her results."
In silence Catherine hung away the dish-pan and scrubbed the sink. Be careful, she warned herself. Don't be cattish; this may be entirely reasonable.
"I'm sorry you don't like her." Charles was solemn. "She thinks you are an unusually sweet——"
"She does! She little knows." Catherine grasped desperately for the fraying thread of control. After all, why shouldn't they write a book together? She turned quickly, to find Charles eying her with a cautious, investigatory stare.
"You know—" she grinned at him. "I may write a book with Dr. Roberts. He was looking over my notes yesterday, and he thinks we can find a firm to publish the report, as a marketable book. Of course, the Bureau puts out a report, too."
A thin veil of blankness drew itself over the curiosity in Charles's face. Before he spoke, however, the bell in the hall sounded.
"Company to-night!" Catherine drooped. "I'm worn to a frazzle."
It was Margaret; her gay, "Hello, King Charles!" floated reassuringly to Catherine, dabbing powder hastily on her nose, brushing back her hair from her forehead.
"I brought my partner in to meet you two. Amy, this is the King, and my sister, Catherine—Amy Spurgeon."