"Will you be gone in the morning, Mother?"
His question halted her at the door.
"No, Spencer. What made you ask that?"
"I wanted to know."
She snapped off the light and closed his door.
Then Marian was bathed; scrubbing and spluttering, she repeated with funny little imitations of Charles's phrases, the stories about Mitty Bantam and Mr. Bill's dog.
Catherine opened the window to let the steam out of the bathroom, while she hung up limp towels and scrubbed out the tub and restored things to shining order. Her sleeve slipped down on her wet wrist, and she shoved it back impatiently. She'd like a drowsy, warm bath herself, and sleep, dreamless, heavy. But Charles was waiting for her. The interim was over. Pushing her hair away from her forehead with her habitual gesture, she went into the living room.
Charles looked up from his paper, smoke wreathing his face.
"This has been fine," he said, warmly. "Comfortable home evening."
Catherine sat down, brushing drops of water from her skirt.