into this role.

A gap had come in her chat with Cope. He had told her all he had been asked
to tell--or all he meant to tell: at any rate he had been given abundant
opportunity to expatiate upon a young man's darling subject--himself.
Either she now had enough fixed points for securing the periphery of his
circle or else she preferred to leave some portion of his area (now
ascertained approximately) within a poetic penumbra. Or perhaps she wished
some other middle-aged connoisseur to share her admiration and confirm her
judgment. At all events----

"Oh, Mr. Randolph," she cried, "come here."

Randolph left his doorway and stepped across.

"Now you are going to be rewarded," said the lady, broadly generous. "You
are going to meet Mr. Cope. You are going to meet Mr.----" She paused. "Do
you know,"--turning to the young man,--"I haven't your first name?"

"Why, is that necessary?"

"You're not ashamed of it? Theodosius? Philander? Hieronymus?"

"Stop!--please. My name is Bertram."

"Never!"

"Bertram. Why not?"

"Because that would be too exactly right. I might have guessed and