"They talked half through the night, too," Foster added bitterly.
"Young men's problems," said Randolph. "Possibly they were considering
Pearson."
"Possibly," repeated Foster; and neither followed further, for a moment,
the pathway of surmise.
Presently Randolph rose and scuffled through the ruck of newspapers, with
which no great progress had been made. "Is Medora at home?" he asked.
"I think she's off at church," said Foster discontentedly. "And Hortense
went with her."
"I'll call her up later. If I can get her for Wednesday--and Pearson
too...."
Foster, accustomed to piecing loose ends as well as he could, did not ask
him to finish. Randolph picked up a crumpled sheet from the floor, reseated
himself, and read out the account of yesterday's double performance at the
opera.
When Randolph, then, met Cope in the vestibule of the library, on Monday,
he felt that he had ground under his feet. Just how solid, just how
extensive, he was not quite sure; but he could safely take a few steps
experimentally. Cope was a picture of uncertainty and woe; his face was an
open bid for sympathy and aid.
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