"Are you going to the convocation?"
"No."
He sat silent.
"Does that exhaust the subjects of interest?" she asked.
"Pretty nearly. Doesn't it?"
Medora fell silent in turn,--let the light clatter of the tea things speak
for her.
"Are you going to the convocation?" he presently asked again.
"Such variety!" she mocked.
"Are you?"
She hesitated.
"Yes," she said.
"That's better. Let's go together--as friends."
"Who would imagine us going as enemies?"
"Who, indeed?" Yet if they went together they went as reconciled
competitors,--they went as the result of a truce.
"I should like to see Bertram Cope in cap and gown," he said.
"He has worn them before, he tells me."
"As a----?"
"As a member of the choir, during his undergraduate days."
"I see."
"I never noticed him especially, then," she acknowledged.
"We can notice him now."
Medora made a slight grimace. "Yes, we can notice." He the actor; they the
audience. "A farewell performance."
"A final view."
Convocation day came clear, fair, mild. The professors walked in colorful
solemnity beneath the elms and up the middle aisle of the chapel, lending
both to outdoors and indoors the enlivenment of hoods red, yellow, purple.
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