The Copes made separate plans for the afternoon. "If I can't have you to myself, Becky," Cope complained, "I won't have you at all——"
Madge, sitting later next to Becky in the Admiral's big car, was lovely in a great cape of pale wisteria, with a turban of the same color set low on her burnt-gold hair.
"I have brought you wonderful news of Randy Paine," she said to Becky. "He has sold his story, 'The Trumpeter Swan.' To one of the big magazines. And they have asked for more. He is by way of being rather—famous. He came on to New York the day after we arrived. They had telegraphed for him. We wanted him to come up here with us, but he wouldn't."
"Why wouldn't he?"
"He had some engagements, and after that——"
"He will never write another story like 'The Trumpeter Swan,'" said Becky.
"Why not?"
"It—it doesn't seem as if he could—— It is—wonderful, Mrs. Prime——"
"Well, Randy—is wonderful," said Madge.