"Take Gram's coat and hat, please, Spencer." She kissed her mother's cool pink cheek. "How well you look!"
"What a pretty chain!" Marian touched the wrought silver and dull blue stones. "Isn't it, Muvver?"
"Margaret gave it to me yesterday, to match my new dress." Mrs. Spencer crinkled her eyes shrewdly. "Propitiation. She can't get over her surprise that I stand her absence so well."
"I suppose that freak woman put her up to it," said Charles, from the doorway.
"Um." Mrs. Spencer tucked her hand under his arm. "Changes are good for us. But Margaret must have had an ill conscience. She's overthoughtful."
"You see"—Catherine stirred the thickening briskly—"you aren't behaving as a Freudian mother should. You are always unexpected."
"Freud!" Mrs. Spencer made a grotesque little grimace. "What does he know about mothers! But I did think"—she glanced sidewise at Charles—"that Margaret might find things less convenient."
"She will!" Charles patted her hand. "Don't you worry, Mother Spencer. These violent crazes for—for freedom—or people—or causes—wear themselves out."
Catherine lifted her head quickly, to find her mother's eyes quizzically upon her. They meant her, too!
"Want to see my book?" Charles steered Mrs. Spencer out of the kitchen. "Catherine's too busy to talk."