Hortense had stepped into the shoes of a young gentlewoman who had been
trying photography, and who had rather tired of it. At any rate, she had
had a chance to go to Florida for a month and had seized it. Hortense had
succeeded to her little north skylight, and had rearranged the rest to her
own taste; it was a mingling of order and disorder, of calculation and of
careless chance. She had a Victory of Samothrace and a green-and-gold
dalmatic from some Tuscan town----But why go on?
Cope had not been in this new milieu fifteen minutes before Randolph
happened along.
Randolph, as a friend of the family, could scarcely be other than persona
grata. Hortense, however, gave him no great welcome. She stopped in the
work that had but been begun. The winter day was none too bright, and the
best of the light would soon be past, she said. The engagement could stand
over. In any event, he was there ("he," of course, meaning Cope), and a
present delay would only add to the total number of his calls. Hortense
began to wipe her brushes and to talk of tea.
"I'll go, I'll go," said Randolph obligingly. "I heard about the new shop
only yesterday, and I wanted to see it.
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