Catherine was silent. Margaret, as the only woman in a responsible position in a chain of small manufacturing plants, occasionally dropped threads which suggested fabrics too dreadful to unravel.
"Time's up." Margaret rose. "Directors' meeting this afternoon, and I want to bully that bunch of stiff-necked males into accepting a few of the suggestions I've made. I have a fine scheme." She laughed. "I make a list pages long, full of things, well, not exactly preposterous. Women would see them all. But they sound preposterous. And buried somewhere I have the one thing I'm hammering on just then. Sometimes I get it, out of their dismay at the length of the list."
"Here, I may as well go along." Catherine slid out of the chair.
"Will you be home Sunday?" Margaret stopped at the corner. Catherine had a fresh impression of her invincible quality, there in the sunlight with the passing crowds.
"Charles is in Washington. Come in and see the children."
"The King's away, eh?" Margaret waved her hand in farewell. "I'll drop in."
At five Catherine was again on the Avenue, walking steadily north, an eye on the occasional buses. If she could get a seat! As the traffic halted, she saw a hint of movement at the rear of a bus ahead of her. Someone was just getting out. She rushed for it, and clambered to the top just as the jam moved stickily ahead. Just one seat, at the front. This was luck. She relaxed, lazily conscious only of small details her eyes seized upon. When the bus finally swung onto the Drive, she straightened, drawing a deep breath of the fresh wind across the river. A taste of salt in it. She liked the sweep and curving dips of the Drive; the ride gave her a breathing space, a chance to shut off the hours behind her and to take on the aspect of the other life that awaited her. I'll patch up that old fur coat, she thought, and ride all winter. Perhaps I may even afford a new one. Twenty-five a week for Miss Kelly. Another five for my luncheons and bus rides. If Flora will do the marketing, I'll have to pay her more. I ought to help with the food bills, if we feed Miss Kelly, and pay for the clothes I buy for the children, since I would otherwise be making them. Oh! This domestic mental arithmetic sandpapered away the shine of the two hundred and fifty a month which was her salary. But Charles couldn't have additional expenses this year. It wasn't fair, when he had just reached a point at which they found a tiny margin for insurance and saving. Catherine rubbed her hand across her forehead; foolish to do this reckoning in her head; it always left her with that sense of hopeless friction, like fitting a dress pattern on too small a piece of cloth—turning, twisting, trying. Charles had said, "Well, you know my income. We can't manage any more outgo there. Not this year." And at that, she didn't see where she was going to get the first three twenty-five dollars for Miss Kelly. Next month, after she had her own first check—but now! She'd saved the first twenty-five on her own fall clothes. If Charles hadn't had that heavy insurance premium this month, she might have borrowed. It would be fine, some day, to reach a place where their budget was large enough to turn around in without this fear of falling over the edges. Dr. Roberts had said, "Three thousand is the best we can do for you now, but later——"
II
Sunday was a curious day. Miss Kelly, who was to have alternate Sundays off, had this one on, and had taken the children out. Catherine caught a lingering, backward glance from Spencer as they all went down the hall, a silent, wondering stare. He had said nothing about Miss Kelly, nothing about the new order of things; Catherine felt that he held a sort of baffled judgment in reserve. Letty, as always, was cheerfully intent on her own small schemes. Marian had confided last night that Miss Kelly was nice, but her stories sounded all the same, not like Muvver's. Next Sunday, thought Catherine, I'll have them. It's absurd to feel pleased that Spencer doesn't adjust himself at once. I want him happy.