He had not asked to meet
him--for he hardly knew whether he wished to or not. Though this was an
"occasion,"--and his,--he had left Randolph to act quite as he might
choose. There was a third chair at table and Randolph delayed dinner ten
minutes while waiting for it to be filled.
"Well, let's go in and sit down," he said presently, with a slight twist of
the mouth. He spoke lightly, as if it were as easy for Foster to sit down
as for himself. But Foster got into his place after a moment and contrived
to spread his napkin over his legs.
"I expected Bertram Cope," Randolph went on; "but he isn't here, and I have
no word from him and do not know whether----"
He paused, obviously at a loss.
"Not here?" repeated Foster. "Is there, then, one place where he is not?"
"Why, Joe----!"
"Our house is full of him!" Foster burst out raucously. He had removed the
green _abat-jour_, for the candle-shades (as they sometimes will) were
performing their office. In the low but clear light his face seemed
distorted.
"He rises to my floor like incense. The very halls and stairways reek with
his charms and perfections.
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