"Now you've finished her," Catherine rumpled his hair gently as she passed his chair, "tell me what on earth to do. About a maid, I mean."
"Don't know, I'm sure." Charles frowned briefly and picked up his paper again. "Advertise, perhaps," he added.
Catherine's eyes, pondering on the crisp russet crown of his head, bent intently over the paper, hardened. He didn't know, and he didn't mean to concern himself. Her problem, not his. It wasn't his fault if she had no time to hunt up a new maid. On the contrary, Flora's defection was in a way her fault, a failure of judgment in choice.
"I'm going to bed," she said. "I'm tired to death."
"Right-o," said Charles.
Her serge dress lay in a heap across a chair, where she had dropped it that afternoon. Careless of her. She shook it out, regarding it critically. She should have another dress; perhaps a fresh set of vest and cuffs would carry this one along for a time. As she hung it away she brushed down a coat of Charles. She held it at arm's length, her mouth puckered. She had forgotten to leave that suit at the tailor's that morning, as Charles had asked.
She sat down before the mirror to brush her hair. What had he said last night—that she deliberately neglected the little things he asked, that she stood off, being critical. Was it true? Her hair drooped in two long dark wings over her shoulders as she sat idle, thinking. She did feel separate, no longer held in close bondage to the irking, petty things, like darned socks or suits that must be cleaned, or studs in shirt fronts, or favorite desserts. They used to be momentous, those things. It's true! She flung her brush onto the dresser, where it slid along, clattering against the tray. Now I do stand off, a little disdainful, when he makes a fuss, because I'm not a faithful valet. Well! She stood up hastily, braiding her hair with quick fingers. What of it? If I spoiled him, all these years, then I must take the consequences. But it's not—less love, is it? Or did he love me more as his body servant? Are men like that?
She heard Bill's voice, "Don't ever be frantic, Catherine." Bill wasn't like that. She had almost forgotten Bill and last night. What a muddle of feeling in yesterday and to-day! Bill,—and Charles. Ah, she was critical. Charles was right. Critical of the very quality she had always seen and loved. His—yes, his childishness. Bill had dignity, maturity, that was it. Even in his moment of disclosure. He didn't take it out on Henrietta. Didn't smear her even faintly with blame.
She listened an instant as she went down the hall. Charles hadn't moved. In the bathroom she hung away the towels and threw discarded small stockings into the hamper. Then, with a little rush, grinning at herself, she filled the tub. Charles could wait.
Later, drowsily warm and relaxed, she heard Charles tiptoe into the room. She heard his "brr!" at the chill wind through the opened window. Still later she felt him bending cautiously above her. She heard herself breathing slowly, evenly, until his feet scuffed across the floor and his bed groaned softly. I can't wake up, she thought,—buried deep under soft, warm sand—heavy—even if he—wants me.