"The lamb! There, those are properly packed. You be careful when you take them out. Now, shoes. No, put that blouse in your handbag."
"I declare—" Catherine laughed as Margaret moved competently through the piles. "It's like a trousseau—my second."
"That would please the King, I'm sure." Margaret held off a bronze slipper, turning it critically. "Is he as sulky as he acts, Cathy? He said, 'I don't demand external evidence to make me proud of my wife!'" She imitated the dignified resentment of his tone.
"He's frightfully busy with papers and things." Catherine bent over her traveling bag. In her throat a soft pulse beat disturbingly. To-night—she thought. Oh, I can't leave him—obdurate, silent. I must break through.
"Um." Margaret nodded. Then, suddenly, "I told Mother I thought she had no business siding with him."
Catherine faced her, alarmed.
"And she as much as said she thought you were endangering your home and future happiness. Poor mother! She can't step out of her generation, I suppose. For all she is such a brick."
"Don't put anything into her head, for goodness' sake! She's going to be here while I'm gone. She's fond of Charles."
"The only trouble with Charles," declared Margaret, her arms akimbo on her slim hips, "is that he is a man!"