He had determined to
say a thing or two before he went away, and it would be advantageous to
consolidate his position.
He had had five or six hours of cross-country travel, with some tedious
waits at junctions, and at about ten o'clock, after some showy converse, he
acknowledged himself tired enough for bed. Cope saw him up, and did not
come down again. The two talked till past eleven; and even much later, when
light sleepers in other parts of the house were awake for a few minutes,
muffled sounds from the same two voices reached their ears.
But Cope's words, many as they were, told Lemoyne nothing that he did not
know, little that he had not divined. The sum of all was this: Cope did not
quite know how he had got into it; but he knew that he was miserable and
wanted to get out of it.
Lemoyne had asked, first of all, to see the letter from Iowa. "Oh, come,"
Cope had replied, half-bashful, half-chivalrous, "you know it wasn't
written for anybody but me."
"The substance of it, then," Lemoyne had demanded; and Cope, reluctant and
shame-faced, had given it. "You've never been in anything of this sort, you
know," he submitted.
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