“Well, if he is going to get along without him,” said Medora to herself, “it will be all the better for him. He was never any advantage to him,” she added, with an informal and irresponsible use of her pronouns. But she knew what she meant and had no auditor to satisfy.
When, however, she touched on the matter with Basil Randolph she showed more exactitude. Randolph had lingered late upstairs with Foster, and he had been intercepted, on his way out, with an invitation to remain to dinner. “Very well,” he said. “Sing-Lo is not invariably inspired on Monday evening. I shall be glad to stay.”
He felt, in fact, the need of a little soothing. Foster had been taking a farewell shot at Cope and had been rough and vindictive. He had heard something of the antics of “Annabella’s” partner and had magnified characteristically the seriousness of the offense. “What hope for him”—meaning Cope—“so long as he goes on liking and admiring that fellow?”
“Well,” returned Randolph, in an effortless platitude, “liking is the great mystery—whether you take its coming or its going.”
“The sooner this one goes, the better,” snapped Foster. “Have you heard from that fellow at all?” he inquired.
“ ‘That fellow’? What fellow—this time?”
“The other one, of course. Cope.”
“No.”
Foster wiped out Cope with one question.
“Likely to ‘cultivate’ some other young chap, next year?”
Randolph had a moment of sober thoughtfulness.
“No.”
“Good! Get back into harness; have ‘hours’ and all the rest of it. Best thing in the world for you. The young care so much for us—the devil they do!”
Foster gave a savage, dragging clutch at his shade and twisted rebelliously in his chair.
Randolph left him to himself and went below.
Downstairs dinner proceeded cautiously. There was no chance for an interchange of thought until the two young women should have been got out of the way. Hortense had her own affair at the back of her head, and Carolyn hers. Neither could sympathize with the other. Hortense’s manner to Carolyn was one of half-suppressed insolence. Carolyn, buoyed up interiorly, seemed able to endure it—perhaps was not fully conscious of it. There was relief when, after dessert, each arose and went her respective way.
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.
“I don’t say ‘how’ it stands. I don’t say that it ‘stands’ at all. But he has prospects and she has hopes.”
“Prospects and hopes—a strong working combination.”
Medora took the leap. “She will marry him, of course,” she said decidedly. “After his having jilted Amy—”
“ ‘Jilted’ her? Do you understand it that way?”
“And trampled on Hortense—”
“ ‘Trampled’? Surely you exaggerate.”
“And ignored me—You will let me use that mild word, ‘ignored’?”
“Its use is granted. He has ignored others too.”
“After all that, who is there left in the house but Carolyn? Listen; I’ll tell you how it will be. She has answered his letter, of course—imagine whether or not she was prompt about it!—and he will answer hers—”
“Will answer it?”
“Not at once, perhaps; but soon: in the course of two or three weeks. Then she will reply—and there you have a correspondence in full swing. Then, in the fall he will write her from his new post in the East, and say: ‘Dear Girl—At last I can—,’ and so on.”
“You mean that you destine poor Carolyn for a man who is so apt at jilting and trampling and ignoring?”
“Who else is there?” Medora continued to demand sturdily. “In October they will be married—”
“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated Randolph.
“You have something better to suggest?”
“Nothing better. Something different. Listen, as you yourself say. Next October I shall call on you, put my hand in my inside pocket, bring out a letter and read it to you. It will run like this: ‘My dear Mr. Randolph—You will be pleased, I am sure, to hear that I now have a good position at the university in this pleasant town. Arthur Lemoyne, whom you recall, is studying psychology here, and we are keeping house together. He wishes to be remembered. I thank you for your many kindnesses,’—that is put in as a mere possibility—‘and also send best regards to Mrs. Phillips and the members of her household. Sincerely yours, Bertram L. Cope.’ ”
“I won’t accept that!” cried Medora. “He will marry Carolyn, and I shall do as much for her as I did for Amy, and as much as I expect to do for Hortense.”
“I see. The three matches made and the desolation of the house complete.”
“Complete, yes; leaving me alone among the ruins.”
“And nothing would rescue you from them but a fourth?”
“Basil,
