"Oh, musicians—even we poor, despised professionals—are not all like that. If it had been arranged for me to accompany you with an obbligato, I shouldn't have been pleased if opportunity had failed me."
"Your contribution would have been more important than hers. And your substitution for my failure would have given added interest."
The talk, having reached the zone of arid compliment, tended to languish. They had now reached Learning's side of the trolley-tracks, and rills in the great morning flood of the scholastic life were beginning to gather about them and to unite in a rolling stream which flowed toward the campus.
Two or three streets on, the pair separated, she to her work, he to his. For him the walk had been a nothing in particular—he would a little have preferred taking it alone. For her it had been—despite the low level of expressiveness reached on either side—a privilege which had been curtailed much too soon.
Meanwhile, back in the house, Hortense was detailing the events of the previous evening to Joe Foster: the general access of activity on the morning after had made it desirable that she help with his breakfast. She went at it with a will.
"Why," she said, as Foster sat at his coffee, boiled egg and toast, "he keeled over like a baby."
"Hum!" said Foster darkly. It was as if a shaping ideal had dissipated. Or as if a trace of weakness in one seemingly so young and strong was not altogether unacceptable as a source of consolation.
