While a few habitues occupying the arm-chairs on the sidewalk of the club were disappointed at not being invited,--although they knew that ten guests had always been St. George's limit,--others expressed their disapproval of the entire performance with more than a shrug of the shoulders. Captain Warfleld was most outspoken. “Temple,” he said, “like his father, is a law unto himself, and always entertains the queerest kind of people; and if he wants to do honor to a man of that stamp, why that, of course, is his business, not mine.” At which old Tom Purviance had blurted out--“And a shiftless vagabond too, Warfield, if what I hear is true. Fine subject for St. George to waste his Madeira on!” Purviance had never read a dozen lines of anybody's poetry in his life, and looked upon all literary men as no better than play actors. It was then that Richard Horn, his eyes flashing, had retorted: “If I did not know how kind-hearted you were, Purviance, and how thoughtless you can sometimes be in your criticisms, I might ask you to apologize to both Mr. Poe and myself. Would it surprise you to know that there is no more truth in what you say than there is in the reports of that gentleman's habitual drunkenness? It was but a year ago that I met him at his cousin's house and I shall never forget him. Would it also surprise you to learn that he has the appearance of a man of very great distinction?--that he was faultlessly attired in a full suit of black and had the finest pair of eyes in his head I have ever looked into? Mr. Poe is not of your world, or of mine--he is above it. There is too much of this sort of ill-considered judgment abroad in the land. No--my dear Purviance--I don't want to be rude and I am sure you will not think I am personal. I am only trying to be just to one of the master spirits of our time so that I won't be humiliated when his real worth becomes a household word.” The women took a different view. “I can't understand what Mr. Temple is thinking of,” said the wife of the archdeacon to Mrs. Cheston. “This Mr. Poe is something dreadful--never sober, I hear. Mr. Temple is invariably polite to everybody, but when he goes out of his way to do honor to a man like this he only makes it harder for those of us who are trying to help our sons and brothers--” to which Mrs. Cheston had replied with a twinkle in her mouse eyes and a toss of her gray head:--“So was Byron, my dear woman--a very dreadful and most disreputable person, but I can't spare him from my Library, nor should you.” None of these criticisms would have affected St. George had he heard them, and we may be sure no one dared tell him. He was too busy, in fact--and so was Harry, helping him for that matter--setting his house in order for the coming function.