"But you had discussed that with the committee, and they——"
"They agreed with me last year. But they say they didn't realize popular opinion. There was underhanded play going on before I heard about it, and the thing was settled. I don't know just how. It's that feeling—doctors are all wise, established powers, mystic, and we scientists are new. If a man can cure the measles, he knows more about paranoia than I know!"
Catherine clasped her hands, pulses tingling in her finger tips.
"What has happened to Miss Partridge?" she asked.
A dull, brick-glow mounted in Charles's face—anger, or humiliation.
"Has she been ousted, too?" insisted Catherine.
"Dr. Beck has made her his assistant."
"But she's not a physician." Catherine lifted one hand to her throat, pressing it against the sharp ache there. Poor Charles, he had been pounded. If he would only tell her!
"No. But she's shrewd enough to see where her bread will be nicely buttered. She makes an excellent office girl. She—" He was defiant, aggressive. "You didn't ever like her. You'll probably be delighted to hear that she saw which way the wind blew, and even added some puffs of her own. Queering me. Flopping over the instant she saw her own advantage."
That little squirrel smile! And the faint, distinct, metallic ring in her clear voice! Catherine saw her in the dusk of that passageway behind the gymnasium, holding the brown leather bag. I'm soft, she thought, to have no pleasure out of this.