“I withdraw the ‘possibly.’ Probably.”
“And now withdraw the ‘probably.’ Make it ‘certainly.’ ”
“Certainly.”
“ ‘Certainly,’—of course.”
“That’s better,” murmured her companion.
Then Mrs. Phillips must know the newcomer’s name, and must have an outline of the proposed plan. And Amy Leffingwell began to look with renewed interest on the counterfeit form and features of the young man who enjoyed Bertram Cope’s friendly regard. And so the moments of “entertainment”—Cope’s in turn—went on.
“I’m glad he really appears to like somebody,” declared Mrs. Phillips, on the way home; “it makes him seem quite human.” Inwardly, she was resolving to have both the young men to dine at the earliest possible date. It was not always practicable to invite a single young man as often as you wished. Having two to ask simplified the problem considerably.
Cope, flushed and now rather tired, walked upstairs with his photographs, took a perfunctory sip from a medicine-glass, looked at the inkstain on his finger, and sat down at his table. Two or three sheets of a letter were lying on it, and he reread a paragraph or so before dipping his pen.
“You were rather exacting about that weekend excursion. Mr. R. was all right, and a few days of new air and new scenes would have done me a lot of good. Still, I acknowledge your first claim. But remember that I gave up Indian Rock for you, even if you didn’t give up Green Bay for me. I hope the fellow who took you hasn’t got anything further to propose. If he has, I ask for a tip in turn.
“Naturally it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to explain to him, and I haven’t seen him since. But I can truly say that a relative did come, and that she was needed—or thought she was.”
He picked up his pen for a fresh paragraph.
“The new photos—added to those I had—have come in quite nicely. They have just helped me entertain a couple of callers. Women have abounded in these parts today: Mrs. Peck, scurrying about more than usual; an aunt from home, getting away with her baggage—more than she needed to bring; and then the two who have just gone. It all makes me feel like wanting to take part in a track-meet or a ballgame—though, as I am now, I might not last two minutes at either. The lady who called was Mrs. Phillips. I thought she might as well know that you were coming. Of course you are already invited, good and plenty, to her house. Look in old music-books and see if you can’t find ‘Larboard Watch.’ If it turns out you can get away before the holidays, come down and go out with me to Freeford for Christmas. I have had some rather glum hours and miss you more than ever. I have been within arm’s length of one of the University trustees (who can probably place me now!)—but I don’t know just how much that can be counted upon for, if for anything. Show yourself—that will help.
XVI
Cope Goes A-Sailing
Cope was himself in a few days. He set aside his aunt’s counsel in regard to a better regimen, as well as her more specific hints, made in view of the near approach of rough weather, that he provide himself with rubbers and an umbrella, even if he would not hear of a raincoat. “Am I made of money?” he asked. He gave a like treatment to some intimations contributed by Medora Phillips during her call: he met them with the smiling, polite, half-weary patience which a man sometimes employs to inform a woman that she doesn’t quite know what she is talking about. He presently in as active circulation, on the campus and elsewhere, as ever. The few who looked after him at all came to the view that he possessed more mettle than stamina. He had no special fondness for athletics; he was doing little to keep—still less to increase—a young man’s natural endowment of strength and vigor. Occasional tennis on the faculty courts, and not much else.
So the vast gymnasium went for little with him, and the wide football field for less, and the great lake, close by, for nothing. This last, however, counted for little more with anyone else. Those who knew the lake best were best content to leave it alone. As a source of pleasure it had too many perils: “treacherous” was the common word. Its treachery was reserved, of course, for the smiling period of summer; especially did the great monster lie in wait on summer’s Sunday afternoons. Then the sun would shine on its vast placid bosom and the breeze play gently, tempting the swimmer toward its borders and the light pleasure craft toward its depths. And then, in mid-afternoon, a sudden disastrous change; a quick gale from the north, with a wide whipping-up of white caps; and the morrow’s newspapers told of bathers drowned in the undertow, of frail canoes dashed to pieces against piers and breakwaters, and of gay, beflagged steam-launches swamped by the newly-risen sea miles from shore: the toll of fickle, superheated August. But in the late autumn the immense, savage creature was more frankly itself: rude, blustery, tyrannical—no more a smiling, cruel hypocrite. It warned you, often and openly, if warning you would take.
It was on the last Sunday afternoon in October that Cope and Amy Leffingwell were strolling along its edge. They had met casually, in front of the chapel, after a lecture—or a service—by an eminent ethical teacher from abroad—a bird of passage who must pipe on this Sunday afternoon if he were to pipe at all. Cope, who had lain abed late, made this address a substitute for the forenoon service he had missed. And Amy Leffingwell had gone out somewhat for the sake,
