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"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." Hortense had stepped into the shoes of a young gentlewoman who had been trying photography, and who had rather tired of it.
It took on a tang of anger, and also a curious ring of finality as if, suddenly, a last resolution had been reached. "Good night," she said abruptly, and the interview was over. Cope forgot Randolph, and Lemoyne, and his themes. Lemoyne, returning within the hour, found him seated at his desk in self-absorbed depression, his work untouched.
He had hoped, over the cigars and coffee, to lay the foundation of an acquaintance with the brother-in-law who was a trustee, to set up an identity in this influential person's mind as a possible help to the future of Arthur Lemoyne. But the man now in the dining-room, or the drawing-room, or wherever, might as well be in the next state.
"I believe," Randolph continued, "that you are losing in both weight and color. That would be no advantage to yourself and it might complicate Miss Dunton's problem. It's perplexing to an artist when one's subject changes under one's very eye." "There won't be much time for sitting, from now on," observed Lemoyne concisely. "I might try to go round once more," said Cope, " in fairness.
I can find a place for you." "And about poor Roddy?" asked Hortense. "Roddy may stay with me," declared Pearson. "I can put him up. Come on, Aldridge," he said; "you're good for a hundred yard dash." And down they started. "I don't want to stay," muttered Cope to Lemoyne, under cover of the others' departure. "Devil take it; it's the last thing in the world I want to do!"
"This is a gay life!" he broke out; "just the life I have come down here to lead. You're making yourself miserable, and you're making me miserable. It's got to end." Cope gave him a second woeful glance. "Write to her, breaking it off," prompted Lemoyne. "Draft a letter tonight." His mind was full of cliches from his reading and his "scripts."
The only title which has come down to the present time is that of the Baron de Longueuil, which was first conferred on the distinguished Charles LeMoyne in 1700, and has been officially recognized by the British government since December, 1880.
"Let's hope so," returned Lemoyne, softening, with his hand pressed on Cope's own. This brief exchange might have passed for a quarrel and a reconciliation; and the reconciliation seemed to call for a seal. That was soon set by another of Randolph's patient invitations to dinner. "Let's go," said Cope; "I've got to go again sometime." "I don't care about it, very much," replied Lemoyne.
Here is gold to array yourself as becomes a well-to-do gentleman, and gold to spend at wine and on the games withal for, thank Providence, the ancient House of Lemoyne is not yet bankrupt."
The two young men had about brought their new quarters to shape and subjection. They had spent two or three evenings in shifting and rearranging things trifling purchases in person and larger things sent by express. They had reached a good degree of snugness and comfort; but "We've got to go tonight!" said Cope firmly. "Tonight?" repeated Lemoyne.
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