Though the “wood-nymphs” of last autumn’s legend might indeed be, as he had broadly said, “a nice enough lot of girls,” they really were not all alike and indistinguishable: one of them at least, as he should learn, had thumbs.
Hortense wheeled into action.
“The composition is good,” she observed, looking at the canvas as it stood propped against the back of a Chippendale chair; “and, in general, the values are all right. But—” She glanced from the sketch back to the subject of it.
Cope started. He recognized himself readily enough. However, he had had no idea that self-recognition was to be one of the pleasures of his evening.
“—but I shall need you yourself for the final touches—the ones that will make all the difference.”
“It’s pretty good as it is,” declared Mrs. Phillips, who, privately, was almost as much surprised as Cope. “When did you get to do it?”
This inquiry, simple as it was, put the canvas in a new light—that of an icon long cherished as the object of private devotion. Hortense stepped forward to the chair and made an adjustment of the picture’s position: she had a flush and a frown to conceal. “But never mind,” she thought, as she turned the canvas toward a slightly different light; “if Aunt Medora wants to help, let her.”
She did not reply to her aunt’s question. “Retouched from life, and then framed—who knows?” she asked. Of course it would look immensely better; would look, in fact, as it was meant to look, as she could make it look.
She told Cope that she had set up a studio near the town square, not far from the fountain-basin and the elms—
“Which won’t count for much at this time of year,” interjected her aunt.
“Well, the light is good,” returned Hortense, “and the place is quiet; and if Mr. Cope will drop in two or three times, I think he will end by feeling that I have done him justice.”
“This is a most kind attention,” said Cope, slightly at sea. “I ought to be able to find time some afternoon. …”
“Not too late in the afternoon,” Hortense cautioned. “The light in February goes early.”
When Lemoyne heard of this new project he gave Cope a look. He had no concern as to Mrs. Phillips, who was, for him, but a rather dumpy, over-brisk, little woman of forty-five. If she must run off with Bert every so often in a motorcar, he could manage to stand it. Besides, he had no desire to shut Cope—and himself—out of a good house. But the niece, scarcely twenty-three, was a more serious matter.
“Lookout!” he said to Cope. “Lookout!”
“I can take care of myself,” the other replied, rather tartly.
“I wish you could!” retorted Lemoyne, with poignant brevity. “I’ll go with you.”
“You won’t!”
“I’d rather save you near the start, than have to try at the very end.”
Cope flung himself out; and he looked in at Hortense’s studio—which she had taken (or borrowed) for a month—before the week was half over.
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. I don’t exact that I shall witness the mysteries in active operation.”
Cope’s glance asked Randolph to remain.
“There are no mysteries,” returned Hortense. “It’s just putting on a few dabs of paint in the right places.”
She continued to take a few dabs from her brushes and to talk tea. “Stay for a sip,” she said.
“Very well; thank you,” replied Randolph, and wondered how long “a sip” might mean.
In the end it meant no longer for him than for Cope; they came away together. Hortense held Cope for a moment to make a second engagement at an earlier hour.
Randolph had not met Cope for several days, except at the opera, where he had left his regular Monday evening seat in the parquet to spend a few moments in Mrs. Phillips’ friend’s box. He had never seen Cope in evening dress before; but he found him handsome and distinguished, and some of the glamour of that high occasion still lingered about the young man as he now walked through High Street, in his rather shabby tweeds, at Randolph’s side.
Randolph looked back upon his dinner as a complete success: Pearson was engaged, and Cope was free. He now said to Cope:
“Of course you must know I feel you were none too handsomely treated. George is a pleasant, enterprising fellow, but somewhat sudden and rapacious. If
