She saw herself vividly walking that treadmill. Poor Charles; he had expected some release, financially, from the clinic and his book. Wonderful, having things right—don't spoil them.
She rose quickly, bunching together the devastating bits of paper. She had to see Dr. Roberts, at least. No use trying to think. Her mind was a jellyfish. Perhaps if she saw him, and talked with him, something with a backbone would rise up to rout the jellyfish.
"I may not be in for luncheon," she told Mrs. O'Lay. "But you can manage."
"Sure, you look elegant." Mrs. O'Lay replaced the cover on her kettle of soup. "An' a breath of air will do your heart good."
It did, Catherine discovered. She had been housed too long. Clear, bright, gusty, with bits of paper swirling along the stone wall of the Drive, and sharp white wave edges rushing across the river. Too cold for the top of the bus. She watched the river through the window, and then the shops on the side streets. She was empty, except for bits of external things touching her eyes. Straw hats in the windows, and bright feathers; why, spring would come, soon.
The elevator boy grinned at her widely, ducking his bullet head.
"How'do. Ain't seen you round here for quite some time."
That old thrill of belonging to the building—that woman in furs stepping off at the dentist's floor was eying her curiously—the thrill of expanding into part of this complicated, intricate, impersonal life.
Her office again, long, narrow, caging the sunlight between its shelved walls, and the stenographer rising in a little flurry. "I'll call Dr. Roberts. He was expecting you, I think."
Catherine looked out of her window. No one in the fitting room opposite; she could see the sweep of draped fabrics.