If he lacked
costume now, he made it up in manner. He had bestowed an immensity of
manner on Amy Leffingwell, downstairs: his cue had been a high, delicate,
remote gravity. "I know, I know," he seemed to say; "and I make no
comment." Upstairs he kept close by Cope: he was proprietary; he was
protective. If Cope settled down in a large chair, Lemoyne would drape
himself over the arm of it; and his hand would fall, as like as not, on the
back of the chair, or even on Cope's shoulder. And when he came to occupy
the piano-stool, Cope, standing alongside, would lay a hand on his. Mrs.
Phillips noticed these minor familiarities and remarked on them to Foster,
who had lately wheeled his chair in. Foster, a few days later, passed the
comment on to Randolph, with an astringent comment of his own.--At all
events, Amy Leffingwell remained in the distance, and George Pearson shared
the distance with her.
Foster had broken from his retirement on hearing the voices of Cope and
Lemoyne combined in song. The song was "Larboard Watch," and he remembered
how his half-brother had sung in it during courtship, with the young fellow
who had acted, later, as his best man.
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