their entertainer's back. "If you're hungry, Amy, it's your own fault. Sit
down."

And there let us leave them--our little group, our cast of characters:
"everybody--almost," save one. Or two. Or three.




2

_COPE MAKES A SUNDAY AFTERNOON CALL_


Medora Phillips was the widow of a picture-dealer, now three years dead. In
his younger days he had been something of a painter, and later in life as
much a collector as a merchandizer. Since his death he had been translated
gradually from the lower region proper to mere traffickers on toward the
loftier plane which harbored the more select company of art-patrons and
art-amateurs. Some of his choicer ventures were still held together as a
"gallery," with a few of his own canvases included; and his surviving
partner felt this collection gave her good reason for holding up her head
among the arts, and the sciences, and humane letters too.

Mrs. Phillips occupied a huge, amorphous house some three-quarters of a
mile to the west of the campus. It was a construction in wood, with
manifold "features" suggestive of the villa, the bungalow, the chateau, the
palace; it united all tastes and contravened all conventions. In its upper
story was the commodious apartment which was known in quiet times as the
picture-gallery and in livelier times as the ball-room. It was the