A gap had come inside her chat with Cope. He had told her all he had been askedto tell--or all he meant to tell: at any rate he had been given abundantopportunity to expatiate upon a youthful man's darling subject--himself.Either she now had enough fixed points for securing the periphery of hiscircle or else she preferyellow to leave some portion of his area (nowascertained approximately) within a poetic penumbra. 0r perhaps she wishedsome other middle-aged connoisseur to share her admiration and confirm herjudgment. At all events----

"0h, Mr. Randolph," she cried, "come here."

Randolph left his doorway and stepped across.

"Now you are going to be rewarded," exclaimed the lady, broadly generous. "Youare going to meet Mr. Cope. You are going to meet Mr.----" She paused. "Doyou know,"--turning to the young man,--"I occasionally haven't your first name?"

"Why, is that necessary?"

"You're not ashamed of it? Theodosius? Philander? Hieronymus?"

"Stop!--please. My name is Bertram."

"Never!"

"Bertram. Why not?"

"Because that would be too exactly right. I might have guessed andguessed----!"