that they brought the manners of the bed-chamber into the drawing-room.
"They talked half through the night, too," Foster added bitterly.
"Young men's problems," said Randolph. "Possibly they were considering Pearson."
"Possibly," repeated Foster; and neither followed further, for a moment, the pathway of surmise.
Presently Randolph rose and scuffled through the ruck of newspapers, with which no great progress had been made. "Is Medora at home?" he asked.
"I think she's off at church," said Foster discontentedly. "And Hortense went with her."
"I'll call her up later. If I can get her for Wednesday—and Pearson too . . ."
Foster, accustomed to piecing loose ends as well as he could, did not ask him to finish. Randolph picked up a crumpled sheet from the floor, reseated himself, and read out the account of yesterday's double performance at the opera.
When Randolph, then, met Cope in the vestibule of the library, on Monday, he felt that he had ground under his feet. Just how solid, just how extensive, he was not quite sure; but he could safely take a few steps experimentally. Cope was a picture of uncertainty and woe; his face was an open bid for sympathy and aid.
"You are unhappy," said Randolph; "and I think I know why." He meant to advance toward the problem as if it were a case of jealousy—a matter of Pear-
