"Poor Spencer is homesick for Maine," she said. "He wanted to know why he ached——"
"He needs to get out with boys more," said Charles sharply. "He's too notional for a boy his age."
Catherine felt a quick flicker of heat under her eyelids. Charles had said that before this summer.
"I want him to be a man," he continued, "not a sentimental little fool."
"I think you needn't worry about that." Catherine was icy. Then suddenly she slipped forward to the arm of his chair, her head down on his shoulder, one hand up to his cheek. "Good Lord, I'm tired! Don't talk about anything, or I'll fight!"
Charles pulled her down into his lap and held her close.
"That's more like it." His mouth was close to her ear. "Sitting off and staring at me! Silly old girl——"
Catherine laughed, just a weak flutter of sound.
"Call me names! But hug me, tighter!" She laughed again. Words, she thought—you can't get a person with words. They stand between you like a wall.