Her entrance broke off the sentence.
"I'll light a lamp," she said briefly. "This firelight's too sentimental. I want hard common sense."
"Here, let me." Bill flicked a match with his thumb nail, and Catherine fitted the heavy orange globe down over the lamp.
She seated herself in the straight chair near the desk.
"Well," said Henrietta, "I don't see any more clearly than I did in the dark. If you have the nerve to try this, Catherine, go ahead. I'm all for you."
"You think, professionally, that it won't harm the children?"
"You can hire some woman, can't you, to take your place as slave? I suppose you still can look at them occasionally."
"Yes. I suppose"—Catherine twisted her fingers together—"I suppose I am as conceited as most mothers, wondering whether they can get along eight hours a day without me."
"You aren't happy, are you?" Henrietta flung at her, abruptly. "You have the blues, black as ink. You have to hang on to yourself about trifles. You——"
"Oh, yes, yes!" Catherine's laugh shrilled a little. "Don't go on with my disgraceful disposition. I admit it. But don't women have to put up with that?"