same: they had little use for you; they readily forgot and quickly dropped
you.

"I wonder whether instructors are a shade better," queried Basil Randolph.
"Or when do sense and gratitude and savoir-faire begin?"

A few days later he had returned to the loose-leaf faculty. Cope's page was
now in place, with full particulars in his own hand: his interest was
"English Literature," it appeared. "H'm! nothing very special in that,"
commented Randolph. But Cope's penmanship attracted him. It was open and
easy: "He never gave _his_ instructor any trouble in reading his
themes." Yet the hand was rather boyish. Was it formed or unformed? "I am
no expert," confessed Randolph. He put Cope's writing on a middle ground
and let it go at that.

He recalled the lighted windows and wondered near which one of them the
same hand filled note-books and corrected students' papers.

"Rather a dreary routine, I imagine, for a young fellow of his age. Still,
he may like it, possibly."

He thought of his own early studies and of his own early self-
sufficiencies. He felt disposed to find his earlier self in this young man
--or at least an inclination to look for himself there.

The next afternoon he walked over to Medora Phillips. Medora's upper floor
gave asylum to a half-brother of her husband's--an invalid who seldom saw
the outside world and who depended for solace and entertainment on
neighbors of his own age and interests. Randolph expected to contribute,
during the week, about so many hours of talk or of reading. But he would