"I don't like to interfere. You know that. But—Charles doesn't seem happy."
"He has no right to——"
"He didn't say that." Mrs. Spencer was stern. "I gathered it. His work isn't going very well. He thinks you aren't interested in it."
Catherine turned her head quickly. Had she heard the door of his study squeak?
"I am. He knows it. Far more than he cares about what I do."
"That's all." Mrs. Spencer rose, preening her skirts like a small bird. "I won't say another word. But think it over, Cathy. There's so much that's crooked and wrenched in the air these days. I don't want you led astray by it. I must run along. Alethea will be expecting me."
In the turmoil of her feelings, Catherine had a sharp sense of the bright, valiant spirit of her mother. She didn't really like to interfere. Charles had coerced her into this! Something wistful and picturesque about the two elderly women, Mrs. Alethea Bragg and her mother, moving serenely about in the great city, nibbling at music, at theaters, at Fifth Avenue shops, taking quiet amusement out of days free from the hectic confusion of trying to live.
"Please don't be concerned about me, Mother." She threw her arm around the firm, neat shoulders. "I'm honestly trying to hunt for a scheme of things that will work for everybody. Not just me. Come in oftener. The children adore it."
IX