His mind churned mightily on the scanty
materials that came his way. He founded big guesses on nothings; he raised
vast speculative edifices on the slightest of premises. To dislike a man he
could not even see! Well, the blind--and the half-blind--had their own
intuitions and followed their own procedures.
"Then you wouldn't advise me to speak a word for him?--for them?"
"Certainly not!" rejoined Foster, with all promptness. "They've treated you
badly. They've put you off; and they came, finally, only because they
counted on getting something out of you.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that of Cope."
"I would. And I do. They're completely wrapped up in their own interests,
and in each other; and they're coupled to get anything they can out of
Number Three. Or out of Number Four. Or Five. Or out of X,--the world, that
is to say."
Randolph shrugged. This was one of Foster's bad days indeed.
"And what's this I hear about Hortense?" asked Foster, with bitterness.
"That won't amount to much."
"It won't? She's out in the open, finally. She took that place for a month
with one express object--to get him there, paint or no paint.
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