This time Foster was full of the events of Friday night. "As I make it out, he kept away from her the whole evening, and that new man helped him do it. Our friend down the street, Hortense says, showed every disposition to cut in, and the girl showed at least some disposition to let him. I don't wonder: when you come right down to it, he's twice the man the other is." "Young Pearson?" "Yes." "Clever lad. Confident. But brash. Just what his father used to be." "He praised her playing. Cope sat dumb. And next morning he hurried away before breakfast. You know what kind of a morning it was. Anything very pressing at the University on a Saturday morning at eight?" "I hardly know." "How about this sudden new friend?" Foster twitched in his chair. "Medora," he went on, "seems to have no special fancy for him. She even objects to his calling Cope 'Bert.' Of course he sings. And he seems to be self-possessed and clever. But 'self-possessed'--that doesn't express it. He was so awfully, so publicly, at home; at least that's as I gather it. Always hanging over the other man's chair; always finding a reason to put his hand on his shoulder...." "Body-guard? No wonder Pearson came to the fore." "I don't know. What I've heard makes me think of----" And here, Foster, speaking with a keen and complicated acerbity, recalled how, during earlier years of travel, he had had opportunity to observe a young married couple at a Saratoga hotel. They had made their partiality too public, and an elderly lady not far away in the vast "parlor" had audibly complained that they brought the manners of the bed-chamber into the drawing-room. "They talked half through the night, too," Foster added bitterly. "Young men's problems," said Randolph. "Possibly they were considering Pearson." "Possibly," repeated Foster; and neither followed further, for a moment, the pathway of surmise. Presently Randolph rose and scuffled through the ruck of newspapers, with which no great progress had been made. "Is Medora at home?" he asked. "I think she's off at church," said Foster discontentedly. "And Hortense went with her." "I'll call her up later. If I can get her for Wednesday--and Pearson too...." Foster, accustomed to piecing loose ends as well as he could, did not ask him to finish. Randolph picked up a crumpled sheet from the floor, reseated himself, and read out the account of yesterday's double performance at the opera. When Randolph, then, met Cope in the vestibule of the library, on Monday, he felt that he had ground under his feet. Just how solid, just how extensive, he was not quite sure; but he could safely take a few steps experimentally. Cope was a picture of uncertainty and woe; his face was an open bid for sympathy and aid. "You are unhappy," said Randolph; "and I think I know why." He meant to advance toward the problem as if it were a case of jealousy--a matter of Pearson's intrusion and of Amy's seemingly willing acceptance of it.