Indeed, thought Medora, he made other young men in nearby boxes--
young men of "means" and "position"--look almost plebian. "He is charming,"
she said to herself, over and over again.
What about him "took" her? Was it his slenderness, his grace? Was it his
youthfulness, intact to this moment and promising an extension of agreeable
possibilities into an entertaining future? Or was it more largely his
fundamental coolness of tone? Again he was an icicle on the temple--this
time the temple of song. "He is glittering." said Medora, intent on his
blazing blue eyes, his beautiful teeth ever ready for a public smile, and
the luminous backward sweep of his hair; "and he is not soft." She thought
suddenly of Arthur Lemoyne; he, by comparison, seemed like a dark, yielding
plum-pudding.
On the way into town Medora had had Hortense sit in front with Peter. This
arrangement had enabled her to lay her hand more than once on Cope's, and
to tell him again that he had been rather badly treated, and that Amy, when
you came to it, was a poor slight child who scarcely knew her own mind. "I
hope she had not made a mistake, after all," breathed Medora.
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