When her trunk came, she had rummaged through it, selecting all the material of her work, and sending it to Dr. Roberts with a brief note. "My son has been injured and I can do nothing more with this. If you can send someone else to finish the work, please do so. I can not even think of it for the present."
There would come a day, she knew, when she could think again, a day when she would face the lurking shadows of her guilt, would determine what it meant. Not now. Not until Spencer was well.
Charles was waiting, too, she knew. He was subdued, considerate, concerned lest she overtax herself. But he seemed one of the shadows in the outer world.
Then Spencer lost his angelic patience, and began to fret humanly about lying flat in bed.
"A few more days, Spencer." Henrietta smiled at him. "Then this crack in your head will be healed enough."
"But I feel all right now."
Fear, retreating, dragged away the distortion it had given, and gradually the shadows about Catherine grew three-dimensional again. Henrietta warned her: "You'll have a frightful slump, Catherine, unless you let yourself down easily, after this strain."
"I don't feel tired, not at all."
"That's the trouble. And you are. Rest more. Spencer doesn't need you every second now. Let Charles sleep here to-night."