Catherine's brows drew together.
"We're all right," said Marian. "Go on away!"
"Yes, you are." Catherine sighed briefly. Charles had his air of "Are you going to deprive me of a pleasant hour?"
"You wouldn't go without me?" she asked. "Tell Mr. Thomas that if mother wishes to stay, we'll come. We can telephone him."
Mrs. Spencer said she would like nothing better than a chance at the children without their interfering parents, and in the late afternoon Catherine and Charles set forth. The cross-town car was jammed; Catherine, from an uncomfortable seat just under the conductor's fare box, watched the people about her with remote eyes. She hated these humid, odorous jams. She always crawled off into a dark corner of herself, away from the jostling and pushing of her body. Heavy, dull faces—she lifted her head until her eyes could rest on the firm solidity of Charles's shoulder and head. Nothing professorial about that erect head, the edge of carefully shaved neck between collar and clipped fair hair that showed under the soft gray hat. But even the back of his head looked intelligent, alive. He turned suddenly, and over the crowd their eyes met in a mysteriously moving flare of acknowledgment. He grinned at her—he knew her hatred of such crowds; and turned away again. Catherine shivered a little. That was what she wanted to keep, that awareness of each other, that intimate self-recognition. She couldn't keep it if she was worn down into dullness and drabness and stupidity. She had, she knew, stirred Charles out of his easy acceptance of her as an established custom, and for the day, at least, she had submerged his resentment. As the car stopped under the tracks she was thinking, if I can win him over to believe in what I am, what I want, inwardly, in his feeling, not in words,—then I can do anything!
They sat together on the train and talked. Charles had spent one Sunday during the summer with the Thomases; they had a tennis court and chickens. Thomas had been promoted to Assistant Professor, but he kept his extension classes still, as the oldest boy was entering college this fall.
"He was crazy about some old French verse forms that day. Couldn't talk about anything else. Mrs. Thomas wanted to talk about the refinishing of the walls."
"I'll wager she did. Verse forms interest her only as a means to the salary end."
"But she's a fine type of woman, don't you think?"
Catherine shrugged.