"I'm not threatening you, my dear man," Farley said, his eyebrows raised. "I ask you as a favor, that's all. I think I know my wife's—mind better than perhaps she does herself. And certainly better than an outsider can."
"And you regard me as an outsider?" Phil's voice was loud.
"You know perfectly well what I mean!" Farley replied angrily. "You are not her husband and consequently do not know—"
"I know her a damn sight better than you do, you stuffed shirt!"
Like most blond men, Farley became red very easily. At the moment, he resembled a tomato with yellow hair. "Why, you little—"
"Really!" At the sound of Katherine's voice, they both swung around. They had been making too much noise to hear her return, and she stood at the open door. "Isn't this a bit undignified?" she said. "I could hear you outside."
Farley was breathing heavily. "What brought you back, Katherine?" he asked, finally.
She walked past them to the psychiatrical sofa and sat on it without answering the question. She looked as though her mind was on something else—and then, suddenly, startled and intent.
Yes! I am here....
Neither Phil Kaufman nor Russell Farley heard her—they were intent on avoiding one another's eyes, but they would not have heard her anyway.