"We're
going to have tonight, the storm of the season."
"Storm or no storm, I can't put it off any longer. I've got to go."
As they started out the wind was keen, and a few fine flakes, driven from
the north, flew athwart their faces. When they reached Mrs. Phillips'
house, Peter, wrapped in furs, was sitting in the limousine by the curb,
and two or three people were seen in the open door of the vestibule.
"Well, the best of luck, _cher Professeur_," Cope heard the voice of
Mrs. Phillips saying, in a quick expulsion of syllables. "This is going to
be a bad night, I'm afraid; but I hope your audience will get to the hall
to hear you, and that our Pierre will be able to get you back to us."
"Oh, Madame," returned the plump little man, "what a climate!" And he ran
down the walk to the car.
Yes, Mrs. Phillips had another celebrity on her hands. It was an eminent
French historian who was going across to the campus to deliver the second
lecture of his course. "How lucky," she had said to Hortense, just after
dinner, "that we went to hear him _last_ night!" Their visitor was
handsomely accommodated--and suitably, too, she felt--in the Louis Quinze
chamber, and he was expected back in it a little after ten.
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