Her third note almost summoned him to a
rendezvous. It annoyed him; but he might have been more than annoyed had he
known of her writing, rather simply, to a rather simple mother in Fort
Lodge, Iowa, about her hopes and her expectations. Her mother had, of
course, heard in detail of the rescue; and afterward had heard in still
greater detail, as the roseate lime-light of idealization had come to focus
more exactly on the scene. She had had also an unaffected appreciation--or
several--of Cope's personal graces and accomplishments. She had heard,
lastly, of Cope's song to her daughter's obbligato: a duet _in vacuo_,
since Carolyn had been suppressed and the surrounding company had been
banished to a remote circumference. What wonder that she began to see her
daughter and Bertram Cope in an admirable isolation and to intimate that
she hoped, very soon, for definite news?
Well, not a few of us have met an Amy Leffingwell: some plump-faced, pink-
cheeked child, with a delicate little concave nose not at all "strong," and
a fine little chin none too vigorously moulded, and a pair of timid candid
blue eyes shadowed by a wisp or so of fluffy hair--and have not always
taken her for what she was.
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