"What does the King say?" Margaret smiled at her.
"Oh, he doesn't say much." Catherine laughed. Why, she could joke about him! She felt a hard brilliance carry her along, as if—she sent little glances about the room, at the women near her—something homogeneous about them—unlike the girls at the St. Francis, still more unlike the woman who lunched at the Acadia, or at Huylers—something sufficient, individual—"What kind of a club is this, anyway?"
"We wanted a place downtown here where we could have good food. All the lugs are in the kitchen. Wonderful cook!" Amy leaned across the table, her eyes afire. She could be intense over food, too, then! "A place where one might bring a guest. City Club too crowded, too expensive, too—too too! for independent women. There were eleven of us, originally. We called it the "Little Leaven," you know. Now there are several hundred. All sorts. Writers, artists, editors. That's a birth control organizer, and the woman with her is an actress. Anybody interesting comes to town, we haul her in to speak in the evening. Men always have comfortable clubs. This is for us."
"Good food, certainly."
"I thought if you were interested, I'd put you up. For membership. The dues aren't high, and now you are downtown, you might like to run in. Always someone here to lunch with, someone of your own kind."
Catherine smiled. Part of her was amused, but part of her shone, as if Amy's intensity, admitting her to the leaven, polished that hard brilliance——
"I'd like it!" she declared. "Lunching has been irksome."
She watched the women again. They seemed less homogeneous, more individual, as she looked.
"Well, I've been thinking about you." Amy was directed at her with astonishing concentration. "Since I met you. What you need is more backing. You feel too much alone."
Catherine felt Margaret's uneasiness, akin to her own faint shrinking from the access of personal probing.