Medora and Randolph settled down on a causeuse in the drawing-room. The
place was half-lighted, but Randolph made out that his companion was taking
on a conscious air of pseudo-melancholy.
Her eyes roved the dim, cluttered room with studied mournfulness, and she
said, presently:
"Dear old house! Undergoing depopulation, and soon to be a waste."
"Depopulation?"
"Yes; they're leaving it one by one. First, Amy. You remember Amy?"
"I believe so."
"She married George and went away. You recall the occasion?"
"I think I was present."
"And now it's Hortense."
"Is it, indeed?"
She told him about the gallant young Southerner in Tennessee, and gave a
forecast of a probable pairing.
"And next it will be Carolyn."
"Carolyn? Who has cast his eye on her?"
Medora shot it out.
"Bertram Cope!"
"Cope!" Randolph gave himself another twist in that well-twisted sofa.
"Cope," she repeated. If the boy were indeed beyond her own reach, she
would report his imminent capture by another with as much effect as she
could command.
And she told of Carolyn's fateful letter.
"So that's how it stands?" he said thoughtfully.
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