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again.
    â€œDouglass!” he called to the handsome gentleman who now entered his dining room. “What are you about? What excuse can you give for arriving too late for dinner and too early for tea?”
    â€œA very simple one, Jervas,” the friend replied. “I dined in Westminster at noon, and I am to take tea in Piccadilly. But I could not pass by your house without visiting.”
    Jervas turned toward Alexander, who had also risen from his seat at the table. “Allow me to present my young friend Alexander Pope, just arrived from Binfield,” said Jervas. “Douglass is lately returned from abroad,” he added.
    Douglass looked startled at the sight of Alexander, but said quickly, “Binfield! You came by the Windsor road, I imagine.”
    Alexander nodded.
    â€œPope,” Douglass repeated. “A good Romish name, sir.”
    Alexander’s heart sank at the remark—the very first person he met in London had raised the matter of his religion. And yet something about Douglass’s tone of voice made Alexander look at him more closely. Was it possible that this man could have another reason for asking about his name?
    As though he sensed Alexander’s curiosity, Douglass spoke again. “I come to issue an invitation to Tuesday evening’s masquerade at the Spring Garden,” he said with a smile. “I need not tell you, Jervas, what these nights are generally like, and I leave it up to Mr. Pope to envision a gathering at which every man and woman imagines that they are disguised beyond the possibility of recognition.”
    Jervas laughed, and said that he was longing to attend.
    Alexander murmured that he would do his utmost to construct the spectacle.
    â€œHe need hardly imagine it, Douglass, for he is soon to see it for himself,” cried Jervas, covering over Alexander’s diffidence. “But come! I am about to show Mr. Pope my new paintings. Will you come upstairs, too?”
    Douglass said that he would, and threw his gloves down onto a chair in the hall, where his greatcoat was already lying. As they walked up the stairs, Douglass turned to Alexander. “How did you find the road today?” he asked. “Very wet, I daresay, at this time of year.”
    â€œOn the contrary,” said Alexander, looking at him closely again. “It was dry, and not at all crowded. The hard frost has kept the roads in excellent repair, and the sportsmen in the country.”
    Jervas interrupted with delight, oblivious of Alexander’s wary tone. “Speak not to Douglass of hard frosts and sportsmen!” he said. “I do not believe this man has left town for the country since we were at school. Frosts and thaws are of no account to him, as I do not think he has chased after a deer or shot at a bird in his life.”
    â€œCharles is quite right,” said Douglass, glancing into a room where a large looking glass was hanging just inside the door. Alexander watched as he made an adjustment to his cuffs. Then, as though he could not help a small gesture of arrogance, he lifted a hand to his neck and smoothed his collar. Seeing it, Alexander drew in his breath sharply, and the men’s eyes met in the glass of the mirror. At first Douglass’s expression was blank, but, as Alexander stared at him, a shadow of comprehension crossed his features. He recovered quickly.
    â€œNothing would induce me to leave town at this time of year,” Douglass said. “I cannot bear the damp of an English country house. In my mind’s eye the road to London is always wet in the winter, and since that is the only eye with which I shall ever see it, wet it remains.”
    With this they reached the door of the studio, and the sight of Jervas’s pictures distracted Alexander from his fledgling thoughts about Douglass.
    The room was just as he had remembered: a delightful miscellany of drawings and pictures brought back from the Continent,