"Us? You."
"Me, then. Shall I be so uncivil as to hold back?"
"It might not displease her if you did."
"Her?"
"Your Mrs. Phillips. If I may risk a guess——"
"You may not. Your precious 'psychology' can wait. Don't be in such a damned hurry to use it."
"It had better be used in time."
"It had better not be used at all. Drop it. Think about your new play, or something."
"Oh, the devil!" sighed Lemoyne. "Winnebago seems mighty far off. We got on there, at least." He bent again over his desk.
Cope put down his book and came across. There were tears, perhaps, in his eyes—the moisture of vexation, or of contrition, or of both. "We can get along here, too," he said, with an arm around Lemoyne's shoulder.
"Let's hope so," returned Lemoyne, softening, with his hand pressed on Cope's own.
