He glanced across toward the pile of corrected themes. He felt that not everybody was “called,” as a matter of course, to write English, and he stubbornly nourished the belief that toiling over others’ imperfections was more of a job than boards of trustees always realized.
“Of course,” he presently resumed, “things are rather changed from what they were before. I find more in the way of social opportunities and greater interest shown by the middle-aged. It is no disadvantage to cultivate people who have their own homes; the lunchrooms round the fountain-square are numerous enough, but not so good as they might be. And I don’t know but that an instructor may lose caste by eating among a miscellany of undergraduates. Anyhow, it’s no plan to pursue for long.”
He sat for a moment, lost in thought over recent social experiences.
“One very good house has lately been opened to me,” he continued. “I dined there last Thursday evening. It’s really quite a mansion—a great many large rooms: picture-gallery, ballroom, and all that; and the dinner itself was very handsomely done. You know my theory—a theory rather forced upon me, in truth, by circumstances—that the best way to enjoy a good meal is to have had a string of poor ones. Well, since coming back, and with no permanent arrangements made, I have had plenty of chance for getting into position to appreciate the really first-class. There was a color-scheme in pale pink—ribbons of that color, pink icing on the cakes, and so on. The same thing could be done, and done charmingly, in light green—with pistache ice-cream. Of course the candle-shades were pink too.”
His eye wandered toward a small triangular closet, made off from the room by a flimsy and faded calico-print curtain.
“I had my dress-suit cleaned and pressed, but the lapels of the coat came out rather shiny, and I thought it better to hire one for the occasion. There was no trouble about a fit—I have standardized shoulders, as you know.
“Of course I miss you all the time, and I assuredly missed you just here. If it is really true, as you write, that you are holding your summer gains and weigh twelve pounds more than you did at the end of June, and if you are thinking of getting a new suit, please bear in mind that my own won’t last much longer. I have the chance, now, to go out a good deal and to meet influential, worthwhile people. In the circumstances I ask you not to bant. One rather spare man in a pair of men is enough.
“My hostess, a Mrs. Phillips, I met at a tea during my first week. This tea was given by a lady in the mathematical department, and she and her husband were at the dinner. They are people in the early or middle thirties, I judge, and were probably put in as a connecting link between the two sections of the party. Mrs. Phillips herself is a rich widow of forty-odd—forty-five or six, possibly—though I am not the very best judge in such matters: no need to tell you that, on such a point, my eye and my general sense are none too acute. The only other middle-aged (or elderly) person present was a Mr. Randolph, who is perhaps fifty, or a little beyond, yet who appears to have his younger moments. There were some girls, and there were two young men in business in the city—neighbors and not connected with the University at all. ‘For which relief,’ etc.—since it is a bit benumbing to move in academic circles exclusively;—I should hate to feel that a really professorial manner was stealing over me. Well, everybody was lively and gay, except at first Ryder (he’s the math. man); but even he limbered up finally. Mrs. Phillips herself has a great deal of action and vivacity—seemed hardly more than thirty. Well, I could be pretty gay too with a lot of money behind me; and I think that, for another year or so, I can contrive to be gay without it. But after that. …
“I wish you had been there instead of Ryder. If you are really going to be twenty-seven in November—as I figure it—you might yourself have served as a connecting link between youth and age. No, no; I take it back; I didn’t mean it. I wouldn’t have you seem older for anything, and you know it.
“There were three girls. They all live in the house itself, forming a little court: Mrs. P. seems to need young life and young attentions. So not one of them had to be taken home—there’s usually that to do, you know. Not that it would have mattered much, as the distances would have been short and the night was clear starlight. But they could all stay where they were, and I walked home in quite different company.”
Cope threw back his Oriental table-cover once more and drew out a few additional sheets of paper.
“One of them is an artist. She paints portraits, and possibly other things. Oh, I was going to say there is an art-gallery at the top of the house. Her husband—I mean Mrs. Phillips’—was a painter and collector himself; and after dinner we went up there, and a curious man came in, propelling a wheeled chair—a sort of death’s-head at the feast. … But don’t let me get too far away from the matter in hand. She is dark and a bit tonguey—the artist-girl; and I believe she would be sarcastic and witty if she weren’t held down pretty well. I think she’s a niece: the relationship leaves her free, as I suppose she feels, to express herself. If you like the type you may have it; but wit in a woman, or even humor, always makes me uncomfortable. The
