"Oh, by the way, I ran into that Miss Partridge last week, at the hospital. Do you see much of her?"
Catherine flinched. The stealthy feet were running.
"What made you think of her?" she asked.
"Oh—" Henrietta hesitated. "Thinking about you and Charles. I had a little talk with her, while we waited. She's an interesting type, I think."
"What do you make of her? Charles seems to admire her immensely."
"So do several of the staff. She's the kind of modern woman men do like. Unoriginal, useful, wonderful assistant. Cold as a frog—they don't guess that. She's clever. Her line is that men are so generous and fine, give her every opportunity to advance."
"What is she after, do you think?"
"Money. Position. But she's parasitical. Not in the old sense. She's sidetracked all her sex into her ambition, but she uses it as skillfully as if she wanted a lover or a husband."
"I have seen very little of her." Catherine was busy with her gloves. She wanted to escape before those shrewd blue eyes caught a glimpse of her caged, uneasy, obsessive fear.
"She'll get on," said Henrietta. "Wish you could stay for dinner, Catherine. No? Let me know if I can help you out. Tell Charles I think he should be immensely proud of you, being offered this trip, will you? I'll run in some evening soon and tell him myself."