"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Randolph.
"You have something better to suggest?"
"Nothing better. Something different. Listen, as you yourself say. Next October I shall call on you, put my hand in my inside pocket, bring out a letter and read it to you. It will run like this: 'My dear Mr. Randolph,—You will be pleased, I am sure, to hear that I now have a good position at the university in this pleasant town. Arthur Lemoyne, whom you recall, is studying psychology here, and we are keeping house together. He wishes to be remembered. I thank you for your many kindnesses,'—that is put in as a mere possibility,—'and also send best regards to Mrs. Phillips and the members of her household. Sincerely yours, Bertram L. Cope.'"
"I won't accept that!" cried Medora. "He will marry Carolyn, and I shall do as much for her as I did for Amy, and as much as I expect to do for Hortense."
"I see. The three matches made and the desolation of the house complete."
"Complete, yes; leaving me alone among the ruins."
"And nothing would rescue you from them but a fourth?"
"Basil, you are not proposing?"
"I scarcely think so," he returned, with slow candor. "I shouldn't care to live in this house; and you——"
"I knew you never liked my furnishings!"