"That's right, Martha. And you got those letters off?"
"Yes'm."
"Good."
She followed Catherine, closing the door.
"Just have a chair, Mrs. Hammond." She whisked herself into place beside the old roll-top desk, her rotating office chair creaking as she settled down on its springs. A little cubby-hole of an office, with a sort of film of long use over the gray walls and painted floor, over the crammed pigeon holes of the desk, over the huge framed photographs—the "Acropolis," the "Porch of the Maidens," the "Sistine Madonna," and, above the desk, a faded group photograph of gentle faces above enormous puffed sleeves; in the corner a small hat-tree, from which a rusty umbrella dangled.
"You teach, Miss Snow, in addition to being Dean?"
"Oh, yes. Latin and Greek. It's a great relief from plumbers and colds." She had a plump, white face, with gray bangs over her forehead, sharp blue eyes, and full pink lips held firmly together. She has humor, thought Catherine, and common sense, but she's intolerant. "So you're making an investigation of us, are you?" The Dean rubbed at a streak of chalk-dust on the sleeve of her tight dress. "What do you expect us to do after you point out our shortcomings?"
She thinks I am dressy and interfering. Catherine held her hands motionless against her desire to fidget. She's just the kind of sensible woman I can't get on with.
"The Bureau wants to make a constructive study," she said. "Not a criticism."