I
"Dr. Gilbert will be in immediately." The neat little office nurse ushered Catherine into the living room. "She left word for tea at five."
Catherine said she would wait. The nurse bent down to touch a match to the gas log, and tiny blue flames leaped in mechanical imitation of a hearth fire. Catherine stood at the window, drawing off her gloves. The buildings between the hotel and the corner of the Avenue had been demolished since her last visit; beneath the windows gaped a huge chasm, rocky, pitted with pools of dark water, angled with cranes and derricks,—like a fairy tale, thought Catherine, and the old witch froze them into immobility with her stick, her stick being a holiday.
The room was Henrietta, unimaginative, practical, disinterested. Expensive, department store furniture, overstuffed chairs and davenport, floor lamp, mahogany. Henrietta had ordered the furnishings, the maid had set them in place, and there they stayed, unworn, impersonal. A maid wheeled in the tea wagon, and Henrietta's firm heels sounded in the hall.
"Catherine! Good for you." Henrietta clapped her shoulder as she passed. "Afraid something might detain you." She shook off her heavy English coat, and went briskly to pouring tea. Her close hat had flattened her fine light hair above her temples, giving additional plump serenity to her face.
"That's all, Susie," she told the maid. "If there are any calls for me, take them. I am undisturbed for one hour now."
"Ah, this is great!" She stretched her feet toward the humming gas log; shining toes, ankles slim even in the gray spats. "I suppose you have a mission, since you take the time to come down here to-day. But whatever it is, I am glad to see you."
Catherine sipped at the tea. The hot, clear fragrance was an auger, releasing words.
"Shrewd guess, Henry." She smiled. "I want advice."
"Help yourself." Henrietta's teeth closed in her sandwich with relish.