Charles was echoing that old custom. But he didn't realize it. And Catherine thought, with a stabbing bitterness, "He has this feeling of comfort, not because we are here together, but because the evening has pleased him."
"What do you think is Bill's secret, then?" Charles broke out.
"He's thinking of something else, not of that; he's keeping me off his real center," hurried Catherine's thoughts. "I won't be horrid and cross."
"Isn't it lack of conceit?" She reached for the heavy frying pan. "Most of us have to talk to assert ourselves, to make folks listen to us. Bill hasn't any ego——"
"Oh, he's got one, all right." Charles balanced the pile of dishes precariously near the edge of the table. "Looks more conceited just to sit around with that cryptic expression——"
"I don't think so!" Catherine scrubbed vigorously at the sink. "He never looks critical."
"Couldn't get a harsh word out of you about Bill, could I?" Charles jested a little heavily. "He's always been that way, ever since he was a kid."
"Now when Miss Partridge"—Catherine resisted the impulse to say "your Miss Partridge"—"when she is silent, she looks too superior for words."
"Nonsense! I felt you were misjudging her. Now, she's awake, ready to talk——"
"About herself."