Then she returned to the text of the two sonnets and read the first of them--part of it aloud. "Well," she gasped; "this is ardent, this is outspoken!" "That's the fashion among woman poets today," returned Cope, in a matter-of-fact tone. "They've gone farther and farther, until they hardly realize how far they _have_ gone. Don't let them disturb you." Mrs. Phillips reread the closing lines of the first sonnet, and then ran over the second. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed; "when _I_ was a girl----!" "Times change." "I should say so." She looked from the magazine to Cope. "I wonder who 'the only begetter' may be." "Is that quite fair? So many writers think it unjust--and even obtuse and offensive--if the thing is put on too personal a basis. It's all just an imagined situation, manipulated artistically...." Mrs. Phillips looked straight at him. "Bertram Cope, it's _you_!" She spoke with elation. These sonnets constituted a tribute. Cope, she knew, had never looked three times, all told, at Carolyn Thorpe; yet here was Carolyn saying that she... Cope dropped his eyes and slightly flushed. "I wonder if she knows it's out?" Mrs. Phillips went on swiftly. "Did you?" "I?" cried Cope, in dismay. "You were taking it all so calmly." "'Calmly'? I don't take it at all! Why should I? And why should you think there is any ref----?" "Because I'm so 'obtuse' and 'offensive,' I suppose. Oh, if _I_ could only write, or paint, or play, or something!" Cope put his hand wearily to his forehead. The arts were a curse. So were gifted girls. So were over-appreciative women. He wished he were back home, 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.