“Well,” she gasped; “this is ardent, this is outspoken!”
“That’s the fashion among woman poets today,” returned Cope, in a matter-of-fact tone. “They’ve gone farther and farther, until they hardly realize how far they have gone. Don’t let them disturb you.”
Mrs. Phillips reread the closing lines of the first sonnet, and then ran over the second. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed; “when I was a girl—!”
“Times change.”
“I should say so.” She looked from the magazine to Cope. “I wonder who ‘the only begetter’ may be.”
“Is that quite fair? So many writers think it unjust—and even obtuse and offensive—if the thing is put on too personal a basis. It’s all just an imagined situation, manipulated artistically. …”
Mrs. Phillips looked straight at him. “Bertram Cope, it’s you!” She spoke with elation. 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.
Cope felt a half-angry tremor run through him. He was none the less perturbed because Medora Phillips meant obviously no offense. Hortense and Carolyn were viewed as but her delegates; they were doing for her what she would have been glad to be able to do for herself. Clearly, in her mind, there was not to be another Amy.
Well, that was something, he thought. He laughed uneasily, and gave the enthusiastic Mrs. Ryder a few details of the art-world (as she called it)—details which she would not be denied.
“I must call on dear Hortense, some afternoon,” she said.
“Do,” returned Hortense’s aunt. “And mention the place. Let’s keep the dear girl as busy as possible.”
“If it were only photographs. …” submitted Mrs. Ryder.
“That’s a career too,” Mrs. Phillips acknowledged.
They all drifted out into the larger room. Mrs. Ryder left them—perhaps to distribute her small change of art and literature through the crowd.
“You’re not forgetting Hortense?” Mrs. Phillips herself said, before leaving him.
“By no means,” Cope replied.
“I hear you didn’t make much of a start.”
“We had tea,” returned Cope, with satirical intention.
This left Medora Phillips unscathed. “Tea puts on no paint,” she observed, and was lost in the press.
It need not be assumed that knowledge of Carolyn Thorpe’s verse gained wide currency through University circles, but there was a copy of the magazine in the University library. Lemoyne saw it there. He scarcely knew whether to be pleased or vexed. Finally he decided that there was safety in numbers. If Cope really intended to go to that studio, it was just as well that there should be an impassioned poetess in the background. And it was just as well that Cope should know she was there. Lemoyne took a line not unlike Mrs. Phillips’ own.
“I only wish there were more of them,” he declared, looking up from his desk. “I’d like a lady barber for your head, a lady shoemaker for your feet, a lady psychologist for your soul—”
“Stop it!” cried Cope. “I’ve had about all I can stand. If you want to live in peace, as you sometimes say, do your share to keep the peace.”
“You are going to have another sitting?”
“I am. How can I get out of it?”
“You don’t want to get out of it.”
“Well, after all the attentions they’ve shown us—”
“Us? You.”
“Me, then. Shall I be so uncivil as to hold back?”
“It might not displease her if you did.”
“Her?”
“Your Mrs. Phillips. If I may risk a guess—”
“You may not. Your precious ‘psychology’ can wait. Don’t be in such a damned hurry to use it.”
“It had better be used in time.”
“It had better not be used at all. Drop it. Think about your new play, or something.”
“Oh, the devil!” sighed Lemoyne. “Winnebago seems mighty far off. We got on there, at least.” He bent again over his desk.
Cope put down his book and came across. There were tears, perhaps, in his eyes—the moisture of vexation, or of contrition, or of both. “We can get along here, too,” he said, with an arm around Lemoyne’s shoulder.
“Let’s hope so,” returned Lemoyne, softening, with his hand pressed on Cope’s own.
XXVI
Cope as a Go-Between
This brief exchange might have passed for a quarrel and a reconciliation; and the reconciliation seemed to call for a seal. That was soon set by another of Randolph’s patient invitations to dinner.
“Let’s go,” said Cope; “I’ve got to go again—sometime.”
“I don’t care about it, very much,” replied Lemoyne.
“If you want any help of his toward a position. … Time’s passing. And a man can’t be expected to bestir himself much for another man he’s never even seen.”
“All right. I’ll go with you.”
Randolph was glad to see Cope again, whom he had not met since the half hour in Hortense Dunton’s studio. He was also glad to secure, finally, a close and leisurely look at Lemoyne. Lemoyne took the same occasion for a close and leisurely look at Randolph. Each viewed the other with dislike and distrust. Each spoke, so far as might be, to Cope—or through
