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Updated: May 3, 2025
A refusal would have delayed and annoyed him just then, in the flood-tide of his hope. "My Dear Mr. St. George," the note ran. "My niece is not at home, and I can not tell how your suggestion will be received by her, though it is most kind. I may, however, answer for myself that I shall be glad to see you at four o'clock this afternoon. "Very truly yours, "MEDORA HASTINGS."
So why haven't we...?" she began again. "Here as an undergraduate, yes," he acknowledged. "Unregarded dust. Dirt beneath your feet. In rainy weather, mud." "Mud!" echoed Medora Phillips loudly, with an increased pressure on his long, narrow hand. "Why, Babylon was built of mud of mud bricks, anyway. And the Hanging Gardens...!" She still clung, looking up his slopes terrace by terrace.
Hortense stepped forward to the chair and made an adjustment of the picture's position: she had a flush and a frown to conceal. "But never mind," she thought, as she turned the canvas toward a slightly different light; "if Aunt Medora wants to help, let her." She did not reply to her aunt's question. "Retouched from life, and then framed who knows?" she asked.
"Crash goes the first pillar. Who will be next?" "He'll be caught in the wreck," said Bond, in a shattered voice. "Just watch and see." Medora, long before Abner had learned to work the pedals of the pianola and to wrench any expression from its stops, had banished most of her "rolls" from sight.
Many stories of his prowess circulated; mere heckling, or a practical joke, he took with a laugh; as when some of the men changed the saddle from his pony to a bucking broncho. But he knew where to draw the line. At Medora, for instance, the Marquis de Mores, a French settler, assumed the attitude of a feudal proprietor.
And with another fortnight Cope himself would be gone; and who knew in what distant quarter he might take up his autumn work? His ambitions, as Randolph knew, pointed to some important university in the East. Meanwhile, make the most of the flying days. Medora Phillips took the same view.
"If you should care to happen in on me some evening before long...." "I have Wednesday," returned Cope, with eagerness. "Not Wednesday. I have an engagement for that evening. But any evening a little later." "Friday? The worst of my week's work is over by then." "Friday will do." And they parted. Randolph had secured for his Wednesday evening Medora Phillips and Hortense.
Ryder left them, perhaps to distribute her small change of art and literature through the crowd. "You're not forgetting Hortense?" Mrs. Phillips herself said, before leaving him. "By no means," Cope replied. "I hear you didn't make much of a start." "We had tea," returned Cope, with satirical intention. This left Medora Phillips unscathed.
After the death of his first wife in January, 1884, Roosevelt went West to the Bad Lands of North Dakota where he lived two years at Medora, on a ranch which he owned, and there he endured the hardships and excitements of ranch life at that time; acting as cow-puncher, ranchman, deputy sheriff, or hunting big and little game, or writing books and articles.
Medora sat in transport. Music wild, intoxicating music made by troubadours direct from a rear basement room in Elysium set her thoughts to dancing. Here was a world never before penetrated by her warmest imagination or any of the lines controlled by Harriman. With the Green Mountains' external calm upon her she sat, her soul flaming in her with the fire of Andalusia.
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