"There's another influx"—Catherine looked at the moving line—"we'd better give up these seats."
"There are chairs yonder." They wound between the tables to the other end of the room, where wicker chairs and chaise longues, screens, tables, and a mirror suggested the good intentions of the patronesses of the St. Francis Club.
"You can lie down behind the screen if you're dead, or read"—Margaret flipped a magazine—"read old copies of respectable periodicals. Here." She motioned to a chaise longue. "Stretch out. I'll sit at your feet. I have a few seconds left."
"How's the job?"
"All right. I spent the morning hunting for a girl. She's been rousing my suspicions for a time. Going to have an infant soon. That's the third case in two months." Margaret clasped her hands about her knees; her short skirt slipped up to the roll of her gray silk stocking. "But I've got a woman who'll take her in. She can do housework for a month or so before she'll have to go to the lying-in home."
Catherine watched her curiously. There was something amazing about the calm, matter-of-fact attitude Margaret held.
"Do you hunt for the father?"
"Oh, the girl won't tell. Maybe she doesn't know."
"If I had your job, I'd waste away from anger and rage and hopelessness about the world."
"No use." Margaret shrugged. "Wish I could smoke here. Too pious. No." She turned her face toward her sister, her eyes and mouth dispassionate. "Patch up what can be patched, and scrap the rest. I'm sick of feelings."