Cope threw himself down on the bed and let Lemoyne get the breakfast. Well,
he had called; he had done the just and expected thing; he had held his
face through it all; but he was tired after a night of much thought and
little sleep. Possibly he might not have to call again for a full week. If
'phone messages or letters came, he would take them as best he could.
Nor was Lemoyne very alert. He was less prompt than usual in gaining his
early morning loquacity. His coffee was lacking in spirit, and much of his
toast was burnt. But the two revived, in fair measure, after their taxing
walk.
They had talked through much of the dead middle of the night. Foster,
wakeful and restless, had become exasperated beyond all power of a return
to sleep. Concerns of youth and love kept them murmuring, murmuring in the
acute if distant ears of one whom youth had left and for whom love was
impossible. Beyond his foolish, figured wall were two contrasted types of
young vigor, and they babbled, babbled on, in the sensitized hearing of one
from whom vigor was gone and for whom hope was set.
"What do you think of her?" Cope had asked.
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