Henrietta nodded to the waiter, who led them into an alcove off the main dining room.
"Quiet in here." Henrietta settled herself briskly. Catherine was thinking: Henrietta manages her life so that things, mere things, never get in her way—laundry, or food, or packing. "I wanted to see you make a go of it," said Henrietta. "You're so darned intelligent. It's the children, I know. If it weren't for them, you could stay here. If you would. Probably Charles would pull you along by a heartstring even then. Now, Bill—— But I'll let him speak for himself. He has some news."
"Perhaps"—Catherine did not glance up—"perhaps, Henry, I've just been knocked flat at the end of the first round. Who knows? I may get my wind back—in Buxton."
"What can you do in a country town?"
Catherine did not answer; Charles was coming toward them, buoyant, touched with excitement, and behind him, Bill. Charles tucked the checks into her purse.
"I'll mail these others to the Dean," he said. "Great place we're going to. The Dean himself has offered to see to our chattels. Going to store them in some building on the campus until we come. Real human beings in Buxton!"
Catherine looked silently at Bill, as he took her hand for a brief moment. She hadn't seen him for weeks; he had been out of town again. His glance was grave, a little pleased.
"Tell them your news, Bill."
"Oh"—he shook out his napkin—"I'm off to South America next week, to build a bridge."
Henrietta explained. Huge engineering project, throwing a link across mountains, a road for commerce. Difficult enough to interest even a clam like Bill.