Randolph had planned a short dinner. His sister, facing the long return-drive, would doubtless be willing to leave by nine-thirty. Then, with two extraneous pieces removed from the board, the real matter in hand might be got under way.
Mrs. Phillips was most lively from the start. She praised the house, which she was seeing for the first time. She extolled Sing-Lo’s department, and Sing-Lo, who delighted in entertainments, was one broad smile. She had a word of encouragement for his less smiling helper, whom she informally christened Sing-Hi; and she chatted endlessly with Mrs. Brackett—perhaps even helped tire her out. Yes, George Pearson was to be urged forward for the rescue of Bertram Cope.
Pearson spoke up loud and clear among the males. He was a businessman among businessmen, and during the very few moments formally allowed for the cigars he made himself, as he felt, tell. And after the Bracketts left—at nine twenty-five—he was easily content to stay on for three-quarters of an hour longer.
At nine-forty Pearson was saying, amidst the cigarette-smoke of the den:
“Does she expect to teach the violin all her life?”
He was both ironical and impatient. Clearly a charming, delicate creature like Amy Leffingwell might better decorate the domestic scene of some gentleman who enjoyed position and prosperity.
“I hope not, indeed,” said Hortense, in a deep contralto.
Pearson cast on Hortense a look which rewarded such discernment.
“Of course he has nothing, now,” said Randolph, with deliberation. “And he may be nothing but a poor, underpaid professor all his life.”
“No ring—yet,” said Hortense, further. Her “yet” meant “not even yet.” Her deep tone was plausibly indignant.
“I’m rather glad of that,” remarked Mrs. Phillips, with an eye pretendedly fixed on the Mexican dolls. “I can’t feel that they are altogether suited to each other.”
“He doesn’t care for her,” pursued Hortense.
“Does she really care for him?” asked Pearson.
No answer. One pair of eyes sought the floor; another searched the ceiling; a third became altogether subordinate to questioning, high-held brows.
Pearson glanced from one face to another. The doubt as to her “caring” seemed universal. The doubt that she cared deeply, essentially, was one that he had brought away from the ballroom. And he went home, at ten twenty-three, pretty well determined that he would very soon try to change doubt to certainty.
“Thank you so much,” said Mrs. Phillips to Randolph, as he went out with her and Hortense to put them in the car. “I’m sure we don’t want him to be burdened and miserable; and I’m sure we all do want her to be happy. George is a lovely, capable chap—and, really, he has quite a way.”
XXIII
Cope Regains His Freedom
On Friday evening Randolph, at home, was glancing now and then at the clock (as on a previous occasion), while waiting for Cope. At eight-fifteen the telephone rang; it was Cope, with excuses, as before. He was afraid he should be unable to come; some unexpected work … It was that autumn excursion all over again.
Randolph hung up the receiver, with some impatience. Still, never mind; if Cope would make no effort to save himself, others were making the effort for him. He had considerable confidence in George Pearson’s state of mind, as well as in George’s egoism and drive.
Foster heard of Cope’s new delinquency, through Randolph’s own reluctant admission. “He is an ingrate, after all,” said Foster savagely, and gave his wheels an exceptionally violent jerk. And Randolph made little effort, this time, toward Cope’s defense.
“You’ve done so much for him,” Foster went on; “and you’re willing to do so much more.”
“I could do a great deal, of course. There may be a good reason this time, too,” said Randolph soberly.
“Humph!” returned Foster.
Cope had hung up the receiver to turn toward Lemoyne and to say: “I really ought to have gone.”
“Wait until I can go with you,” Lemoyne insisted, as he had been insisting just before. The still unseen man of Indian Rock was again the subject of his calculations.
“You’ve been asked,” Cope submitted. “He has been very friendly to me, and I am sure he would be the same to you.”
“I think that, personally, I can get along without him,” the other muttered ungraciously to himself.
Aloud he said: “As I’ve told you, I’ve got the president of the dramatic club to see tonight, and it’s high time that I was leaving.” He looked with intention at the desk which had superseded that old table, with ink-stained cover, at which Cope had once worked. “You can use a little time to advantage over those themes. I’ll be back within an hour.”
Lemoyne had entered for Psychology, and was hoping that he now enjoyed the status necessary for participation in the college theatricals. But he was relying still more on a sudden defection or lapse which had left the dramatic club without a necessary actor at a critical time. “It’s me, or postponement,” he said; “and I think it’s me.” The new opportunity—or bare chance—loomed before him with immensity. Cope’s affair might wait. He would even risk Cope’s running over to Randolph’s place alone.
Cope seated himself at his desk with loyalty, or at least with docility; and Lemoyne, putting on his hat and coat, started out for the fraternity house where the president of the club was in residence.
Five minutes after Lemoyne’s departure Cope heard the telephone ringing downstairs, and presently a patient, middle-aged man knocked at the door and told him the call was for him.
Cope sighed apprehensively and went down. Of course it was Amy. Would he not come over for an hour? Everybody was away, and they could have a quiet talk together.
Cope, conscious of others in the house, replied cautiously. Lemoyne, he said, had gone out and left him with a deskful of themes: tiresome routine work, but necessary, and immensely absorptive of time. He was afraid that he
