Randolph felt a physical distaste for Lemoyne. His dark eyes were too liquid; his person was too plump; the bit of black bristle beneath his nose was an offense; his aura—Yet who can say anything definite about so indefinite a thing as an aura, save that one feels it and is attracted or repelled by it? Lemoyne, on his side, developed an equal distaste (or repugnance) for the “little gray man”—as he called Randolph to himself and, later, even to Cope; though Randolph, speaking justly, was exactly neither gray nor little. Lemoyne noted, too, the early banishment of Randolph’s eyeglasses, which disappeared as they had disappeared once or twice before. He felt that Randolph was trying to stay young rather late, and was showing himself inclined to “go” with younger men longer than they would welcome him. Why didn’t he consort with people of his own age and kind? He was old; so why couldn’t he be old?
The talk led—through Cope—to reminiscences of life in Winnebago. Randolph presently began to feel Lemoyne as a variously yet equivocally gifted young fellow—one so curiously endowed as to be of no use to his own people, and of no avail for any career they were able to offer him. A bundle of minor talents; a possible delight to casual acquaintances, but an exasperation to his own household; an ornamental skimmer over life’s surfaces, when not a false fire for other young voyagers along life’s coasts. Yet Bertram Cope admired him and had become absorbed in him. Their life in that northern town, with its fringe of interests—educational, ecclesiastical, artistic and aquatic—had been intimate, fused to a degree. Randolph began to realize, for the first time, the difficulties in the way of “cultivating” Cope. Cope was a field already occupied, a niche already filled.
While Randolph was gathering (through Cope) details of the life in Winnebago, Lemoyne was gathering (through Cope) details of the life in Churchton during the past autumn. He began to reconstruct that season: the long range of social entertainments, the proposed fall excursions, the sudden shifting of domicile. Randolph, it was clear, had tried to appropriate Cope and to supplant (knowingly or unknowingly) Cope’s closest friend. Lemoyne became impatient over the fact that he was now sitting at Randolph’s table. However, if Randolph could help him to a place and a salary, that would make some amends.
Presently Cope, having served as an intermediary, became the open centre of interest. His thesis was brought forward as a suitable subject of inquiry and comment. It was a relief to have come to a final decision; but no relief was in sight for a long time from the slavery of close reading. Every moment that could be spared from his classroom was given up to books—authors in whom he might be interested or not interested, but who must be gone through.
“A sort of academic convention,” said Cope, rather wanly; “but a necessary one.”
His eyes had begun to show excessive application; at least they looked tired and dim. His color, too, was paler. He had come to suggest again the young man who had been picked up from Medora Phillips’ dining-room floor and laid out on the couch in her library, and who had shown a good deal of pallor during the few days that followed. “Take a little more air and exercise,” Randolph counselled.
“A good rule always, for everybody,” said Lemoyne, with a withholding of all tone and expression.
“I believe,” Randolph continued, “that you are losing in both weight and color. That would be no advantage to yourself—and it might complicate Miss Dunton’s problem. It’s perplexing to an artist when one’s subject changes under one’s very eye.”
“There won’t be much time for sitting, from now on,” observed Lemoyne concisely.
“I might try to go round once more,” said Cope, “—in fairness. If there are to be higher lights on my cheekbones and lower lights for my eyes, an hour or so should serve to settle it.”
“I wouldn’t introduce many changes into my eyes and cheekbones, if I were you,” said Randolph. Lemoyne was displeased; he thought that Randolph was taking advantage of his position as host to make an observation of unwarranted saliency, and he frowned at his plate.
Cope flushed, and looked at his.
The talk drifted toward dramatics, with Winnebago once more the background; but the foreground was occupied by a new musical comedy which one of the clubs might try in another month, and the tone became more cheery. Sing-Lo, who had come in with a maple mousse of his own making, smiled at last; and he smiled still more widely when, at the end of the course, his chief occidental masterpiece was praised. Sing-Lo also provided coffee and cigars in the den; and it was here that Cope felt the atmosphere right for venturing a word in behalf of Lemoyne. There had been few signs of relenting in Winnebago; and some modest source of income would be welcome—in fact, was almost necessary.
“Of course work is increasing in the offices,” said Randolph, looking from one young man to the other; “and of course I have, directly or indirectly, some slight ‘influence.’ ”
He felt no promptings to lend Lemoyne a hand; yet Cope himself, even if out of reach, might at least remain an object of continuing kindness.
“But if you are to interest yourself in some new undertaking by ‘The Grayfriars,’ ” he said to Lemoyne, “will you have much time and attention to give to office-work?”
“Oh, I have time,” replied Lemoyne jauntily, “and not many studies. Half a day of routine work, I thought. … Of course I’m not a manager, or director, or anything like that. I should just have a part of moderate importance, and should have only to give good heed to rehearsals. …”
“Well,” said Randolph thoughtfully.
“I hope you can do something,” put in Cope, with fervor.
“Well,” said Randolph again.
This uncomfortable and unsatisfactory dinner of three presently drew to its
