Bertram Cope’s Year · Chapter 18 (2/2)

“Why the Sassafras has Three Kinds of Leaves!” cried Medora in triumph. Mittens for midsummer made no difficulty.

Cope gave Carolyn careful thanks for her support at the piano, and did not see that she felt he too could be a poet if he only would. He went out of his way to shake hands with Hortense, and did not realize how nearly a new quarrel had opened. He stepped over to do the like with Amy; but she went out with him into the hall⁠—the only one of the party who did⁠—and even accompanied him to the front door.

“Thank you so much,” she said, looking up into his face smilingly and holding his hand with a long, clinging touch. “It went beautifully; and there are others that will go even better.”

“Others?” He thought, for an instant, that she was thanking him for his Legend and was even threatening to regard him as a flowing fount of invention; but he soon realized that her mind was fixed exclusively on their duet⁠—if such it was to be called.

“The deuce!” he thought. “Enough is enough.”

Despite his success with the Sassafras, he went home discomforted and even flustered. That hand was too much like the hand of possession. The girl was stealing over him like a light, intangible vapor. He struck ahead with a quicker gait, as if trying to outwalk a creeping fog. One consolation, however: Hortense had come like a puff of wind. Even a second squall from the same quarter would not be altogether amiss.

And had there not been one further fleeting source of reassurance? Had he not, on leaving, caught through the open door of the drawing room an elevation of Medora Phillips’ eyebrows which seemed to say fondly, indulgently, yet a bit ironically, “Oh, you foolish girl!”? Yet if a girl is foolish, and is going to persist in her folly, a lightly lifted pair of eyebrows will not always stay her course. Her gathering momentum is hardly to be checked by such slender means.