II
Dinner was ready when Catherine reached home. She went in to bid Letty good night; Miss Kelly had put her to bed, a doll on each side of her yellow head. As the small arms flew about Catherine's throat, choking her, and she caught the sweet fragrance of the drowsy, warm skin her lips brushed, a panic of negation seized her. Go away, for days and days, without that soft ecstasy of touch, of assurance? She was mad to think of it. "There, Letty, that's a lovely hug." She drew the blanket close to the small chin.
"An' tuck in Tilda and li'l' Pet," murmured Letty. "My Muv-ver dear."
What was sentimental and what was sane? Catherine, smoothing into place the heavy coil of her hair, washing her hands, delaying her entrance to the living room, where she heard, vaguely, the voices of Charles and the children, struggled slowly to lift her head above the maelstrom. It was only for a few weeks out of a lifetime. The children would not suffer. And I want to go, she thought. Something leaped within her, vigorous, hungry, clamorous. It's not loving them less, to need something outside them, beyond them, something worth the temporary price of absence. Charles loved them, and yet he could go freely, without any of these qualms, into danger, for months.
She marched into the living room, her resolution firm. She would tell Charles about it, after dinner. Perhaps he would be indifferent. Perhaps—her obsession bared its teeth behind the flimsy bars—he might be relieved, at freedom to follow other desires.
Marian, perched on the arm of her father's chair, one arm tight about his neck, squirmed to look up at Catherine, expectant brightness in her eyes. Spencer stood in front of them, hands in his pockets, his face puckered intensely.
"Couldn't it be managed some way, Daddy?" he begged.
"Where's your allowance?" Charles stretched lazily, one hand enclosing Marian's slippered feet, dancing them slowly up and down.