"She does not feel that we are quite so well suited to each other as we ought to be, nor that her feeling toward me is what love really . . . Can she have been in dramatics too!"
"Your letter," returned Lemoyne, with dignity, "would have been understood."
"Quite so," Cope acknowledged, in a kind of exultant excitation. He caught the rough draft from his desk—it was all seared with new emendations—tore it up, and threw the fragments into the waste-basket. "Thank Heaven, I haven't had to send it!" In a moment, "What am I to write now?" he asked with irony.
"The next will be easier," returned Lemoyne, still with dignity.
"It will," replied Cope.
It was,—so much easier that it became but an elegant literary exercise. A few touches of nobility, a few more of elegiac regret, and it was ready at nine that night for the letter-box. Cope dropped it in with an iron clang and walked back to his quarters a free man.
A few days later Lemoyne, working for his new play, met Amy Leffingwell in the music-alcove of the University library. She had removed her gloves with their furry wristlets, and he saw that she had a ring on the third finger of her left hand. Its scintillations made a stirring address to his eye.
Cope heard about the ring that evening, and about Amy Leffingwell's engagement to George Pearson the next day.
