never softens it. She has not moved in fashionable circles. She speaks her mind with clearness and precision. She swept her eye over that unfortunate venture of mine, with the air of one who yields to no blandishments and said oracularly, "Looks sort o'chewed-up lookin' to me."
I suspect Catherine of a prejudice against the war. We all have one, of course, but with most of us it is localized, while with her it is more or less diffused. It is in its domestic aspects that Catherine's prejudice is most apparent. She doesn't like saving bread-crusts and being particular about another egg or two when it comes to the pudding. She is of a generous habit herself, and left-overs give her dormant imagination no upward lift. She probably thinks the Food Controller unreasonable. I am humbly thankful if she doesn't too openly include me. I am aware of a distinct line of thus far and no farther, with Catherine, and that it runs on the kitchen side of the garbage can, but I have no eagerness to cross it. I am thankful for my mercies as they stand.
But Catherine's idiosyncrasies are dimmed in the light of her human quality which after
