"Indirectly, sometimes. But even the most righteous mothers crave information. How do I manage! It's extraordinary. It may have gone to my head. Like strong drink. I know I'm talking too much. But, Bill, you've boiled me over, all this brew, and I have to talk!"
"I like it."
"You see—" Catherine glanced up doubtfully. "I can't write to Charles. It sounds too much like crowing." She fingered her soup spoon. She wanted to talk about Charles, too. Bill would understand. Those brief, impersonal notes of his: he was well, he was working on his book, he was busy with semester finals, the children were well, yours, Charles.
"You never saw Charles's mother, did you?" asked Bill.
"No." Catherine waited. Bill was never random in his associations.
"He's told you about her, of course?"
"Lots of times. She was devoted to him, wasn't she? You knew her?"
"We lived next door for years, you know. She died just as Charles went to college. His father had died years earlier. Just enough income for comfort, and just Charles. I think"—he grinned a little—"that you'll have to train Charles as long as she did, before he can fully appreciate your career."
"But that was years ago."