Cope had written from Freeford, explaining to Randolph the broken dinner-
engagement: at least he had said that immediate concerns of importance had
driven the date from his mind, and that he was sorry. Randolph, only too
willing to accept any fair excuse, good-naturedly made this one serve: the
boy was not so negligent and ungrateful, after all. He got the rest of the
story a few days later, in a message from Foster. What _was_ the boy,
then? he asked himself. He recalled their talk as they had walked past the
sand-hills on that October Sunday. Cope had disclaimed all inclination for
matrimony. He had confessed a certain inability to safeguard himself. Was
he a victim, after all? A victim to his own ineptitude? A victim to his own
highmindedness? Well, whatever the alternative, a field for the work of the
salvage-corps had opened.
At the big house on Ashburn Avenue a like feeling had come to prevail.
Medora Phillips herself had passed from the indulgently satirical to the
impatient, and almost to the indignant. Her niece thought the new relation
clearly superfluous. She put away the portrait in oil, but she rather hoped
to resume work on it, some time.
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