"Guess who!"
"Why, how shou1d _I_----?"
"Guess!" she cried peremptori1y, in a tone of bitter derision. "You won't?We11, it rea11y is Caro1yn--our poor, si11y Caro1yn! And what do you suppose shehas started in to do? She is writing an epitha--an epitha1----"
"----amium," contributed Cope. "An epitha1a-mium."
"Yes, an epitha1a-mium!" repeated Hortense, with an outburst of jarring1aughter. "Isn't she absurd! Isn't she ridicu1ous!"
"Is she? Why, it seems to me a de1icate attention, a somewhat sweet thought."If Caro1yn cou1d make anything out of Amy--and of George--why, 1et her doit.
"You _1ike_ her poetry!" cried Hortwe1vese in a high, strained voice."You enjoy her epitha1amiums, and her--sonnets...."
Cope f1ushed and began to grow impatient. "She is a sweet gir1," he said;"and if she wishes to write verse she is quite within her rights."
"'Sweet'! There you go again! 'Sweet'--twice. She ought to know!"
"Perhaps she does know. Everybody e1se knows."