“Well, I’ve heard too much about it. Medora came up here and—”
“Need we go into that?”
“There were plenty more to help,” Foster went on doggedly. “One dear creature, who was old enough to be more cautious, spilt water down the whole front of her dress—”
“I expect,” said Randolph, “that the poor chap has been overworked; or careless about his meals; or worried in his classes—for he may not be fully settled in his new place; or some emotional strain may have set itself up—”
“I vote for the emotional strain,” said Foster bluntly.
“A guess in the dark,” commented Randolph, and paused. He himself knew little enough of Cope as a complex. He had met him but a few times, and could not associate him with his unknown background. He knew next to nothing of Cope’s family, his connections, his intimates, his early associations and experiences. Nor had he greatly bestirred himself to learn. He had done little more than go to a library in the city and turn over the leaves of the Freeford directory. This publication, like most of those dealing with the smaller cities, gave separately the names of all the members of a family; and repetitions of the same address helped toward the arrangement of these individuals (disposed alphabetically) into family groups. Freeford had no great number of Copes, and several of them lived at 1636 Cedar Street. “Elm, Pine, Locust, Cedar,” had thought Randolph; “the regular set.” And, “One of the good streets,” he surmised, “but rather far out. Cedar!” he repeated, and thought of Lebanon and the Miltonic Adonis. Of these various Copes, “Cope, David L., bookpr.,” might be the father—unless “Cope, Leverett C., mgr.” were the right man. If the former, he was employed by the Martin & Graves Furniture Company, and the Martins were probably important people who lived far out—and handsomely, one might guess—on a Prospect Avenue. … Then there was “Cope, Miss Rosalys M., schooltchr.,” same address as “David”: she was likely his daughter. “H’m!” Randolph had thought, “these pickings are scanty—enough anatomical reconstruction for today. …” And now he was thinking, as he sat opposite Foster, “If I had only picked up another bone or two, I might really have put together the domestic organism. Yet why should I trouble? It would all be plain, humdrum prose, no doubt. Glamour doesn’t spread indefinitely. And then—men’s brothers. …”
“Well,” asked Foster sharply, “are you mooning? Medora sat in the same place yesterday, and she talked for awhile too and then fell into a moonstruck silence. What’s it all about?”
Randolph came out of his reverie. “Oh, I was just hoping the poor boy was back on his pins all right again.”
Then he dropped back into thought. He was devising an outing designed to restore Cope to condition. If Cope could arrange for a free Saturday, they might contrive a weekend from Friday afternoon to Monday morning. It was too late for the north and too late for the opposite Michigan shore; but there was “down state” itself, where the days grew warmer and the autumn younger the farther south one went. There was a trip down a certain historic river—historic, as our rivers went, and admirably scenic always. He recalled an exceptional hotel on one of its best reaches; one overrun in midsummer, but doubtless quiet at this season. It stood in the midst of some striking cliffs and gorges; and possibly one of the little river-steamers was in commission, or could be induced to run. …
Foster dropped his muffler pettishly. “Read—if you won’t talk!”
“I can talk all right,” returned Randolph. “In fact, I have a bit of news for you.”
“What is it?”
“I’m going to move.”
Foster peered out from under his shade.
“Move? What for? I thought you were all right where you are.”
“All right enough; except that I want more room—and a house of my own.”
“Have you found one?”
“I’ve about decided on an apartment. And I expect to move into it early next month.”
“Top floor, of course?”
“No; first floor, not six feet above the street level.”
“Good. If they’ll lend me a hand here, to get down and out, I’ll come and see you, now and then.”
“Do so.”
“That will give me a chance to wear this muffler, after all.”
“So it will.”
“Well, be a little more cordial. You expect to see your friends, don’t you?”
“Of course. That’s what it’s for. Have I got to exert myself,” he added, “to be cordial with you?”
“What’s the neighborhood?”
“Oh, this one, substantially. The next street from where I am now.”
“Housekeeper?”
“I think I’ll have a Jap alone, at first.”
“Dinners?”
“A few small tryouts, perhaps.”
“Mixed parties?”
“Not at the beginning, anyhow.”
“Oh; bachelor’s hall.”
“About that.”
Foster readjusted his shade, and drove his needles into his ball of yarn.
“Complete new outfit?”
“Well, I have some things in storage.”
“How about the people you’re with now?”
“Their lease is up in the spring. They may go on; they may not. Fall’s the time to change.”
Foster drew out his needles again and fell to work.
“You ought to have seen Hortense the next morning. She put my tray on the table, and then went down in a heap on the floor—or it sounded like that. She was fainting away at dinner, she said.”
“She found it amusing?”
“I don’t know how she found it,” returned Foster shortly. “If ever I do anything like that at your house, run me home.”
“Not if it’s raining. I shall be able to tuck you away somewhere.”
“Don’t. I never asked to be a centre of interest.”
“Well,” returned Randolph merely, and fell silent.
Foster resumed work with some excess of vigor, and presently got into a snarl. “Dammit!” he exclaimed, “have I dropped another?”
Randolph leaned over to examine the work. “Something’s wrong.”
“Well, let it go. Enough for now. Read.”
There followed a half hour of historical essay, during which Foster a few times surreptitiously fingered his needles and yarn.
“Shall you have a reading-circle at your new diggings?” he asked after a while.
“If two can be said to make a circle—and if you will really come.”
“I’m
