He found himself preferring, just
here, "pen" to "typewriter": he would give Carolyn a touch of idealization
--though she had afflicted him with a heavy stroke of embarrassment.
"'Difficult position'?" shrilled Hortense. "With Aunt Medora the very soul
of kindness? I like that! Well, if you want to rescue her from her
difficult position, do it. If you admire her--and love her--tell her so!
_She'll_ be grateful--just read those sonnets over again!"
Hortense dropped her palette and brushes and burst into outrageous tears.
Cope sat bolt upright in that spacious chair. "Tell her? I have nothing to
tell her. I have nothing to tell anyone!"
His resonant words cut the air. They uttered decision. He did not mean to
make the same mistake twice.
Hortense drew across her eyes an apron redolent of turpentine and stepped
toward the throne.
"Nothing? Why this sudden refuge in silence?" she asked, almost
truculently, even if tremulously. "You usually find enough words--even
though they mean little."
"I'm afraid I do," he admitted cautiously.
"You have nothing to tell anyone? Nothing to tell--me?"
Cope rose.
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