He left them presently, and when Catherine rose to go, Henrietta's hand lingered, fumbling—queerly for her—over Catherine's fingers.
"I hope you and Bill make connections," she said. "He's not well. I don't know—listless, needs a change, I guess."
Catherine stared at the anxiety, the puzzled bewilderment in Henrietta's round blue eyes.
"I've been worrying at him to see a specialist here, and he won't. Can't budge him, stubborn old Bill. He enjoys you, Cathy. Have dinner or something with him."
"If we do make connections, of course I shall." Catherine felt a little prickling of guilt, as if in some way Bill's confidence violated complete loyalty to Henrietta. "I'm fond of Bill," she added.
"There's nothing seriously wrong with him. But—there's a gland specialist here in town. I told Bill his cynicism would vanish like the dew if he'd let himself be gone over." Henrietta frowned. "He said if his philosophy was located in his liver, he preferred to keep his illusions about it."
"Oh, you doctors! Thinking every feeling has its roots in some gland, and that you can diagnose any unhappiness."
"Jeer all you like." Henrietta's moment of perplexity had passed. "We're animals, Cathy, and a reasonably healthy animal is reasonably happy."
Catherine reached for purse and gloves; as she dangled the shabby black bag over a finger, she felt the stealthy, restless feet of her obsession begin their pacing. Charles, and Stella Partridge. Charles, with all his tenderness, his love——
With diabolic abruptness Henrietta said: