Dinner went smoothly; the children told their grandmother about coasting, and she asked about school, about Miss Kelly. She wanted to take them to the Metropolitan that afternoon, to hear a lecture for children.
"Aren't there awful jams?" Catherine sighed. Piles of mending, her serge dress to freshen,—she couldn't take the afternoon off, too.
"Not too jammed for pleasure. But you needn't go." Mrs. Spencer's eyes narrowed. "I suppose you use your Sunday for a scrap-bag of odd jobs, like all other working women?"
"I certainly do." Catherine was abrupt. "But you know you prefer the children without me as mentor."
She caught a quick exchange of glances between Charles and her mother. They've been talking about me—she simmered with resentment—and Charles has won her over to his side, whatever it is.
She had proof of that later. Mrs. Spencer and the children had come home from their sojourn, and after they had given Catherine an excited and strange account of the habits of a tribe of Indians, Spencer and Marian had gone to bed.
"What did you do this afternoon?" Mrs. Spencer laid aside her magazine as Catherine came wearily back to the living room.
"I showed Mrs. O'Lay where to find the various tools for her new job"—Catherine had explained Flora's absence earlier—"conducted her initiation ceremony. And washed out a collar, and darned."
Mrs. Spencer nodded.