... Was the fellow in process of making a long
diminuendo--a possible matter of weeks or of months? As before, when
confronted by what had once seemed a paragon of dash and vigor, he scarcely
knew whether to be exasperated or appeased.
Through this variety of spoken words and unspoken thoughts Hortense sat
silent and watchful. Presently the talk lapsed: with the best will in the
world a small knot of people cannot go on elaborately embroidering upon a
trivial incident forever. There was a shifting of groups, a change in
subjects. Yet Hortense continued to glower and to meditate. What had the
incident really amounted to? What did the man himself really amount to? She
soon found herself at his side, behind the library-table and its spreading
lamp-shade. He was silently handling a paper-cutter, with his eyes cast
down.
"See me!" she said, in a tense, vibratory tone. "Speak to me!"--and she
glowered upon him. "I am no kitten, like Amy. I am no tame tabby, like
Carolyn, sending out written invitations. Throw a few poor words my way."
Cope dropped the paper-cutter. Her address was like a dash of brine in the
face, and he welcomed it.
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