Mrs. Phillips accompanied him, on his way out, as far as the hall. She
looked up at him questioningly.

"You don't like my poor girls," she said. "You don't find them clever; you
don't find them interesting."

"On the contrary," he rejoined, "I have spent a delightful hour." Must he
go on and confess that he had developed no particular dexterity in dealing
with the younger members of the opposite sex?

"No, you don't care for them one bit," she insisted. She tried to look
rebuking, reproachful; yet some shade of expression conveyed to him a hint
that her protest was by no means sincere: if he really didn't, it was no
loss--it was even a possible gain.

"It's you who don't care for me," he returned. "I'm _vieux jeu_."

"Nonsense," she rejoined. "If you have a slight past, that only makes you
the more atmospheric. Be sure you come again soon, and put in a little more
work on the foreground."

Cope, on his way eastward, in the early evening, passed near the trolley
tracks, the Greek lunch-counter, without a thought; he was continuing his
letter to "Dear Arthur":

"I think," he wrote, with his mind's finger, "that you might as well come
down. I miss you--even more than I thought I should. The term is young, and
you can enter for Spanish, or Psychology, or something. There's nothing for
you up there. The bishop can spare you. Your father will be reasonable. We
can easily arrange some suitable quarters..."