son's intrusion and of Amy's seemingly willing acceptance of it.
Cope soon caught Randolph's idea, and he stared. He did not at all resent Randolph's advances; misapprehension, in fact, might serve as fairly, in the end, as the clearest understanding.
Randolph placed his hand on Cope's shoulder. "You have only to assert yourself," he said. "The other man is an intruder; it would be easy to warn him off before he starts in to win her."
"George Pearson?" said Cope. "Win her? In heaven's name," he blurted out, "let him!"
It was a cry of distaste and despair, in which no rival was concerned. Randolph now had the situation in its real lines.
"Well, this is no place for a talk," he said. "If you should care to happen in on me some evening before long . . ."
"I have Wednesday," returned Cope, with eagerness.
"Not Wednesday. I have an engagement for that evening. But any evening a little later."
"Friday? The worst of my week's work is over by then."
"Friday will do." And they parted.
Randolph had secured for his Wednesday evening Medora Phillips and Hortense. Hortense was the young person to pair with Pearson, who had thrown over an evening at his club for the dinner with Randolph. The talk was to be—in sections and instalments—of Amy Leffingwell, and of Cope in so far as
