Cope's first call was made, not on a tempestuous evening in the winter time, but on a quiet Sunday afternoon toward the end of September. The day was sunny and the streets were full of strollers moving along decorously beneath the elms, maples and catalpas.
"Drop in some Sunday about five," Medora Phillips had said to him, "and have tea. The girls will be glad to meet you."
"The girls"? Who were they, and how many? He supposed he could account for one of them, at least; but the others?
"You find me alone, after all," was her greeting. "The girls are out walking—with each other, or their beaux, or whatever. Come in here."
She led him into a spacious room cluttered with lambrequins, stringy portieres, grilles, scroll-work, bric-a-brac….
"The fine weather has been too much for them," she proceeded. "I was relying on them to entertain you."
"Dear me! Am I to be entertained?"
"Of course you are." Her expression and inflection indicated to him that he had been caught up in the cogs of a sizable machine, and that he was to be put through it. Everybody who came was entertained—or helped entertain others. Entertainment, in fact, was the one object of the establishment.
"Well, can't you entertain me yourself?"
"Perhaps I can." And it almost seemed as if he had been secured and isolated for the express purpose of undergoing a particular course of treatment.