Cope forgot Randolph, and Lemoyne, and his themes. Lemoyne, returning
within the hour, found him seated at his desk in self-absorbed depression,
his work untouched.
"Well, they've taken me," he began; "and I shall have a fairly good part."
Cope made no effort to respond to the other's glowing self-satisfaction,
but sat with thoughtful, downcast eyes at his desk before the untouched
themes. "What's the matter?" asked Lemoyne. "Has she been calling up
again?"
Cope raised his head and gave him a look. Lemoyne saw that his very first
guess had been correct.
"This is a gay life!" he broke out; "just the life I have come down here to
lead. You're making yourself miserable, and you're making me miserable.
It's got to end."
Cope gave him a second woeful glance.
"Write to her, breaking it off," prompted Lemoyne. "Draft a letter
tonight."
His mind was full of _cliches_ from his reading and his "scripts." He
had heard all the necessary things said: in fact, had said them himself--
now in evening dress, now in hunting costume, now in the loose habiliments
of Pierrot--time and time again. The dissatisfied _fiance_ need but
say that he could not feel, after all, that they were as well suited to
each other as they ought to be, that he could not bring himself to believe
that his feeling for her was what love really should be, and that----
Thus, with a multiplicity of "that's," they accomplished a rough draft
which might be restudied and used on the morrow.
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