Catherine stepped softly away from the door. She could get Letty's bath ready. And she must transfer bedclothes. Spencer was to move into his own room again, and she had forgotten to ask Mrs. O'Lay to arrange the beds.
When she went in for Letty, the story had gone on to a dog. Mr. Bill's dog. He lived next door, Charles was explaining, and he was bigger than I was. His dog was shaggy.
Letty, protesting, came, full of incoherencies about dogs and kittens and chickens.
"Muvver, to-day Letty wants li'l dog an' li'l kitty an' li'l shickey."
"Not to-day. To-day's over. Now you are a fish." And Letty swam vigorously. Catherine stood beside her cot, looking down at her, fragrant, pink, beatific. A decent place to live in—with live things around them instead of city streets. A tiny, distant alarm clanged in her mind. That was what Charles had said, when he spoke of the offer at Buxton. Was he thinking about that, still? What was he thinking about!
Spencer had his bath, refusing her assistance with firm dignity. He was silent, standing at the door of his own room, a thin, pajamaed figure, looking at his own cot.
"You don't need me now at night, do you?" Catherine turned down the covers. "Here, hop in before you are chilly."
"I liked that other bed," said Spencer. "It's much softer."
"Nonsense!" Catherine laughed at him, tucked him in, kissed his cheek softly, not looking at the pink, wrinkled scar. "Same kind of springs. And you're well now."