"Haven't been here?" she returned. "But you _have_ been here; you must
have been here for years--for four, anyhow. So why haven't we...?" she
began again.
"Here as an undergraduate, yes," he acknowledged. "Unregarded dust. Dirt
beneath your feet. In rainy weather, mud."
"Mud!" echoed Medora Phillips loudly, with an increased pressure on his
long, narrow hand. "Why, Babylon was built of mud--of mud bricks, anyway.
And the Hanging Gardens...!" She still clung, looking up his slopes terrace
by terrace.
Cope kept his self-possession and smiled brilliantly.
"Gracious!" he said, no less resonant than before. "Am I a landscape
garden? Am I a stage-setting? Am I a----?"
Medora Phillips finally dropped his hand. "You're a wicked, unappreciative
boy," she declared. "I don't know whether to ask you to my house or not.
But you may make yourself useful in _this_ house, at least. Run along
over to that corner and see if you can't get me a cup of tea."
Cope bowed and smiled and stepped toward the tea-table. His head once
turned, the smile took on a wry twist. He was no squire of dames, no
frequenter of afternoon receptions.
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