"There!" said Mrs. Phillips, at its close. "Isn't it too sweet? And it
inspired Carolyn too. She wrote a poem after hearing it."

"A copy of verses," corrected Carolyn, with a modest catch in her breath.
She was a quiet, sedate girl, with brown eyes and hair. Her eyes were shy,
and her hair was plainly dressed.

"Oh, you're so sweet, so old-fashioned!" protested Mrs. Phillips, slightly
rolling her eyes. "It's a poem,--of course it's a poem. I leave it to Mr.
Cope, if it isn't!"

"Oh, I beg--" began Cope, in trepidation.

"Well, listen, anyway," said Medora.

The poem consisted of some six or seven brief stanzas. Its title was read,
formally, by the writer; and, quite as formally, the dedication which
intervened between title and first stanza,--a dedication to "Medora
Townsend Phillips."

"Of course," said Cope to himself. And as the reading went on, he ran his
eyes over the dusky, darkening walls. He knew what he expected to find.

Just as he found it the sophomore standing between the big padded chair and
the book-case spatted his hands three times. The poem was over, the
patroness duly celebrated. Cope spatted a little too, but kept his eye on
one of the walls.

"You're looking at my portrait!" declared Mrs. Phillips, as the poetess
sank deeper into the big chair. "Hortense did it."