Foster had wondered whether Cope would be present. He had not asked to meet him—for he hardly knew whether he wished to or not. Though this was an "occasion,"—and his,—he had left Randolph to act quite as he might choose. There was a third chair at table and Randolph delayed dinner ten minutes while waiting for it to be filled.
"Well, let's go in and sit down," he said presently, with a slight twist of the mouth. He spoke lightly, as if it were as easy for Foster to sit down as for himself. But Foster got into his place after a moment and contrived to spread his napkin over his legs.
"I expected Bertram Cope," Randolph went on; "but he isn't here, and I have no word from him and do not know whether——"
He paused, obviously at a loss.
"Not here?" repeated Foster. "Is there, then, one place where he is not?"
"Why, Joe——!"
"Our house is full of him!" Foster burst out raucously. He had removed the green abat-jour, for the candle-shades (as they sometimes will) were performing their office. In the low but clear light his face seemed distorted.
"He rises to my floor like incense. The very halls and stairways reek with his charms and perfections."
"Well, you escape him here," said Randolph ruefully.
"The whole miserable place is steaming with expectation,—with the deadly aroma of a courtship going stale. I can't stand it! I can't stand it!"