Catharine sprang from her bed at daybreak that morning. She could
scarcely stop singing in the bath. She had so much to do, so much to
do! The air blew briskly, the factory bells were clanging, the bees
buzzed, the pretty white curtains were flapping. It was a busy world,
and she was busiest of all. Had she not Hugh Guinness's fate in hand?
She felt like a lad when he comes of age or makes his first venture
in business. Jane heard her singing noisily for a while, but when
breakfast was ready she did not come down.

She was standing in front of her glass, staring at it as though the
chubby, insignificant face there were the Sphinx and could answer the
riddles of life. McCall's remark had suddenly recurred to her: "What
is Hugh Guinness to you? You belong to another man." With a flash, Mr.
Muller, natty and plump, had stood before her, curiously unfamiliar,
mildly regarding her through his spectacles. _Her husband!_ Why had
she never understood that until this morning? Her crossed hands lay on
her wide blue-veined shoulders. She almost tore the flesh from them.
"I belong to no man!" she cried.

She could not shake off the thought of him, as she usually did.
He stood beside her, do what she would--the fat body and legs, the
finical dress, the wearisome platitudes, a regiment of blue-coated,
thick-lipped children behind him.

"If the best were done for them that could be hoped, they would but
grow up miniature Mullers; and to think of _that!_" said Kitty. She
had given her life to him. If she lived to be gray-headed, he alone
owned her, mind and body. "If I were dead in my coffin, he would put
his mild, fat little hand on me, and look forward to owning me in