These sonnets constituted a tribute. Cope, she knew,
had never looked three times, all told, at Carolyn Thorpe; yet here was
Carolyn saying that she...
Cope dropped his eyes and slightly flushed.
"I wonder if she knows it's out?" Mrs. Phillips went on swiftly. "Did you?"
"I?" cried Cope, in dismay.
"You were taking it all so calmly."
"'Calmly'? I don't take it at all! Why should I? And why should you think
there is any ref----?"
"Because I'm so 'obtuse' and 'offensive,' I suppose. Oh, if _I_ could
only write, or paint, or play, or something!"
Cope put his hand wearily to his forehead. The arts were a curse. So were
gifted girls. So were over-appreciative women. He wished he were back home,
smoking a quiet cigarette with Arthur Lemoyne.
Mrs. Ryder came bustling up--Mrs. Ryder, the mathematical lady who had
given the first tea of all.
"I have just heard about Carolyn's poems. What it must be to live in the
midst of talents! And I hear that Hortense has finally taken a studio for
her portraits."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Phillips. "And she"--with a slight emphasis--"is doing
Mr. Cope's picture,"--with another slight emphasis at the end.
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