"What would you do about the children?" He cleared his throat. "They seem to need a mother."
"Well, they need a father, too, but not to be a door-mat."
"Everything I think of saying, Catherine, sounds awfully mid-Victorian."
"I know what it all is! You needn't think I don't. But I know the answer to it all, too, so you needn't bother saying it."
"I suppose I better consider myself lucky you aren't expecting me to stay home and take care of Letty. You aren't, are you?"
Catherine laughed. She knew Charles wanted to laugh; he was tired of this serious talk.
"You won't mind, then?" she added, tensely. "You see, if you aren't willing, and interested, I can't do it."
"Try it. Go ahead. I'll bet you'll get sick of it soon enough. After all, you women forget the nuisance of being tied to appointments, rain or shine, toothache or stomachache——"
"Ah-h"—Catherine relaxed in his arms, one hand moving up around his neck. "It has seemed so awful, so serious, thinking it out alone. You are an old dear!"
"All right. Have it your own way." Charles struck his match and held it above the pipe bowl. The light showed his eyes a little amused, a little tender, a little skeptical. It flared out, leaving dancing triangles of orange in the darkness. Catherine shivered. Was he just humoring her, like a child? Not really caring? But she shut her eyes upon the mocking flecks of light and slipped off to the step below him, her head comfortably against his arm.