Cope had not been in this new milieu fifteen minutes before Randolph happened along.
Randolph, as a friend of the family, could scarcely be other than persona grata. Hortense, however, gave him no great welcome. She stopped in the work that had but been begun. The winter day was none too bright, and the best of the light would soon be past, she said. The engagement could stand over. In any event, he was there ("he," of course, meaning Cope), and a present delay would only add to the total number of his calls. Hortense began to wipe her brushes and to talk of tea.
"I'll go, I'll go," said Randolph obligingly. "I heard about the new shop only yesterday, and I wanted to see it. I don't exact that I shall witness the mysteries in active operation."
Cope's glance asked Randolph to remain.
"There are no mysteries," returned Hortense. "It's just putting on a few dabs of paint in the right places."
She continued to take a few dabs from her brushes and to talk tea.
"Stay for a sip," she said.
"Very well; thank you," replied Randolph, and wondered how long "a sip" might mean.
In the end it meant no longer for him than for Cope; they came away together. Hortense held Cope for a moment to make a second engagement at an earlier hour.
Randolph had not met Cope for several days, except at the opera, where he had left his regular Monday evening seat in the parquet to spend a few moments in Mrs. Phillips' friend's box. He had never seen Cope in evening dress before; but he found him handsome and distinguished, and some of the glamour of that high occasion still lingered about the young man as he now walked through High Street, in his rather shabby tweeds, at Randolph's side.
Randolph looked back upon his dinner as a complete success: Pearson was engaged, and Cope was free. He now said to Cope: