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 motor-car, 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.
"Look out!" he said to Cope. "Look out!"
"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 sky-
