Medora, indeed, improvised a little
stretch of silent dialogue, and it made him take his share. She felt
dislocated, almost defeated. Hortense's performance had set her to thinking
of Bertram Cope, and she figured the same topic as uppermost in the mind of
Basil Randolph.
"Well, you have about beaten me," she said.
"How so?" she made him ask, with an affectation of simplicity.
"You know well enough," she returned. "You have played off the whole
University against my poor house, and you have won. Your influence with the
president, your brother on the board of trustees ... If Bertram Cope has
any gratitude in his composition...."
"Oh, well," she let him say, "I don't feel that I did much; and I'm not
sure I'm glad for what I did do."
"You may regret it, of course. That other man is an uncertain quantity."
"Oh, come," he said; "you've had the inside track from the very start: this
house and everything in it...."
"You have a house of your own, now."
"Your dinners and entertainments...."
"You have your own dinner-table."
"Your limousine, your chauffeur,--running to the opera and heaven knows
where else.
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