"But if you are to interest yourself in some new undertaking by 'The Grayfriars,'" he said to Lemoyne, "will you have much time and attention to give to office-work?" "Oh, I have time," replied Lemoyne jauntily, "and not many studies. Half a day of routine work, I thought.... Of course I'm not a manager, or director, or anything like that. I should just have a part of moderate importance, and should have only to give good heed to rehearsals...." "Well," said Randolph thoughtfully. "I hope you can do something," put in Cope, with fervor. "Well," said Randolph again. This uncomfortable and unsatisfactory dinner of three presently drew to its end. "I'd have made it four," said Randolph to Foster, a day or two later, "if I'd only thought of it in time." "_I_ don't want to meet them again," returned Foster quickly. "Well," said Randolph, "I've no fondness for the new fellow, myself; but----" "And I don't care about the other, either." Randolph sighed. This was plainly one of Foster's off days. The only wonder was he had not more of them. He sat in darkness, with few diversions, occupations, ameliorations. His mind churned mightily on the scanty materials that came his way. He founded big guesses on nothings; he raised vast speculative edifices on the slightest of premises. To dislike a man he could not even see! Well, the blind--and the half-blind--had their own intuitions and followed their own procedures. "Then you wouldn't advise me to speak a word for him?--for them?" "Certainly not!" rejoined Foster, with all promptness. "They've treated you badly. They've put you off; and they came, finally, only because they counted on getting something out of you. "Oh, I wouldn't say that of Cope." "I would. And I do. They're completely wrapped up in their own interests, and in each other; and they're coupled to get anything they can out of Number Three. Or out of Number Four. Or Five. Or out of X,--the world, that is to say." Randolph shrugged. This was one of Foster's bad days indeed. "And what's this I hear about Hortense?" asked Foster, with bitterness. "That won't amount to much." "It won't? She's out in the open, finally. She took that place for a month with one express object--to get him there, paint or no paint. She's fretful and cantankerous over every day of delay, and soon she'll be in an undisguised rage." "What does her aunt say to it?" "She's beginning to be vexed. She's losing patience. She thinks it's a mistake--and an immodest one. She wants to send her away for a visit. To think of it!--as soon as one girl lets go another takes hold,--and a third person holds on through all!" "Joe! Joe!" But Foster was not to be stayed. "And that poetry of Carolyn's! Medora herself came up and read it to me. It was a 'tribute,' she thought!" "That won't amount to anything at all."