Besides, the only women left
behind had been two in their forties; the men in their company were even
older. Medora Phillips looked at Randolph, but he was staring
inexpressively at the opposite wall. She found herself wondering if there
were times when the mere absence of the young served automatically to make
the middle-aged more youthful.
"Well, we've had a most lovely walk," she declared. She crossed to the far
corner of the room, contriving to turn down the rug as she went, and opened
up a new reservoir of records. She laid them on the table rather
emphatically, as if to say, "_These_ are suited to the day."
"I hope you're all rested up," she continued, and put one of the new
records on the machine. The air was from a modern opera, true; but it was
slow-going and had even been fitted out with "sacred" words. Everybody knew
it, and presently everybody was humming it.
"It ought not to be hummed," she declared; "it ought to be sung. You can
sing it, Mr. Cope?"
"Oh yes, indeed," replied Cope, readily enough. "I have the breath left, I
think,--or I can very soon find it."
"Take a few minutes.
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