who teaches in one of the schools, I understand; and her name is Rosalind,
or Rosalys. Think of that! I gather that the father is in some business,"
she concluded.

"Well, well," thought Randolph; "more than one touch of gentility, of fine
feeling." If the father was in "some business," most likely it was some one
else's business.

"He sings," said Medora, further. "Entertained us the other Sunday
afternoon. Cool and correct, but pleasant. No warmth, no passion. No
special interest in any of my poor girls. I didn't feel that he was drawing
any of them too near the danger-line."

"Mighty gratifying, that. Where does one learn to sing without provoking
danger?"

"In a church choir, of course. He sang last year in the cathedral at
Winnebago."

"Oh, in Wisconsin. And what took us to Winnebago, I wonder?"

"We were teaching in a college there."

"I see."

The talk languished. Basil Randolph had learned most that he wanted to
know, and had learned it without asking too many direct questions. He began
to pick at the fussy fringe on the arm of his chair and to cast an empty
eye on the other fussy things that filled the room. The two had exhausted
long ago all the old subjects, and he did not care to show an eagerness--