"Of course she did," said Cope under his breath. He transferred an
obligatory glance from the canvas to the expectant artist. But--

"It's getting almost too dark to see it," said his hostess, and suddenly
pressed a button. This brought into play a row of electric bulbs near the
top edge of the frame and into full prominence the dark plumpness of the
subject. He looked back again from the painter (who also had black hair and
eyes) to her work.

"I am on Parnassus!" Cope declared, in one general sweeping compliment, as
he looked toward the sofa where Medora Phillips sat with the three girls
now grouped behind her. But he made it a boreal Parnassus--one set in
relief by the cold flare and flicker of northern lights.

"Isn't he the dear, comical chap!" exclaimed Mrs. Phillips, with unction,
glancing upward and backward at the girls. They smiled discreetly, as if
indulging in a silent evaluation of the sincerity of the compliment. Yet
one of them--Hortense--formed her black brows into a frown, and might have
spoken resentfully, save for a look from their general patroness.

"Meanwhile, how about a drop of tea?" asked Mrs. Phillips suddenly.
"Roddy"--to the sophomore--"if you will help clear that table...."

The youth hastened to get into action. Cope went on with his letter to
"Arthur":

"It was an afternoon in Lesbos--with Sappho and her band of appreciative
maidens. Phaon, a poor lad of nineteen, swept some pamphlets and paper-
cutters off the center-table, and we all plunged into the ocean of Oolong--