Cope, if it isn't!"
"Oh, I beg--" began Cope, in trepidation.
"Well, listen, anyway," said Medora.
The poem consisted of some six or seven brief stanzas. Its title was read,
formally, by the writer; and, quite as formally, the dedication which
intervened between title and first stanza,--a dedication to "Medora
Townsend Phillips."
"Of course," said Cope to himself. And as the reading went on, he ran his
eyes over the dusky, darkening walls. He knew what he expected to find.
Just as he found it the sophomore standing between the big padded chair and
the book-case spatted his hands three times. The poem was over, the
patroness duly celebrated. Cope spatted a little too, but kept his eye on
one of the walls.
"You're looking at my portrait!" declared Mrs. Phillips, as the poetess
sank deeper into the big chair. "Hortense did it."
"Of course she did," said Cope under his breath. He transferred an
obligatory glance from the canvas to the expectant artist. But--
"It's getting almost too dark to see it," said his hostess, and suddenly
pressed a button. This brought into play a row of electric bulbs near the
top edge of the frame and into full prominence the dark plumpness of the
subject.
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