"Friday? I thought I saw him downtown, with Miss Partridge. He probably went later."
"He went at one."
"This couldn't have been Charles, then. It was about four. I thought their committee had been meeting. Hello, Spencer. What you doing?"
Spencer had come in, his hands full of steel girders.
"Mr. Bill, you're a nengineer, aren't you? Well, could you show me about this bridge?"
More than an hour later, when Henrietta did come, Bill was stretched full length, his feet under the dining room table, his eyes on the level of the completed bridge, a marvelous thing of spans and girders, struts and tie-beams.
"I'm too weary to stay, Cathy." Henrietta set her case on the table; her fair skin looked dusted over with fatigue. "Convulsions. One of those mothers who won't believe in diet or doctors for her child. The father sent for me. The child is alive in spite of her."
"Do sit down and rest, at least."
"No. I'm too ugly. Do you want to come, Bill, or are you staying?"