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.
