The length of time that young people, from eighteen to twenty, and even upward, can keep themselves in ecstacies of excitement with such small stock of real things of any sort to say, is something that invariably astonishes old and sober people, who have forgotten that they once were in this happy age, when everything made them laugh. There was soon noise enough, and absorption enough, in the little circle,--widened by the coming in of one or two other young men--to leave me quite unnoticed, and in the background. This was not to be regretted, as Miss Eva assumed with a charming ease and self-possession that rôle of hospitality and entertainment, for which I fancy our young American princess has an especial talent. "Do you know, Mr. Henderson," she said, "we scarcely expected you, as we hear you never go out." "Indeed!" said I. "Oh, yes! your friend, Mr. Fellows there, has presented you to us in most formidable aspects--such a Diogenes! so devoted to your tub! no getting you out on any terms!" "I'm sure," I answered, laughing, "I wasn't aware that I had ever had the honor of being discussed in your circle at all." "Oh, indeed, Mr. Henderson, you gentlemen who make confidants of the public are often known much better than you know. I have felt acquainted with many of your thoughts for a long while." What writer is insensible to such flattery as this? especially from the prettiest of lips. I confess I took to this sort of thing kindly, and was ready if possible for a little more of it. I began to say to myself how charming it was to find beauty and fashion united with correct literary taste. "Now," she said, as the rooms were rapidly filling, "let me show you if I have not been able to read aright some of your tastes. Come into what I call my 'Italy.'" She lifted a _portiére_ and we stepped into a charming little boudoir, furnished in blue satin, whose walls were finished in compartments, in each of which hung a copy of one of Fra Angelico's Angels. Over the white marble mantel was a superb copy of "The Paradise." "There," she said, turning to me, with a frank smile, "am I not right?" "You are, indeed, Miss Van Arsdel. What beautiful copies! They take me back to Florence." "See here," she added, opening a velvet case, "here is something that I know you noticed, for I read what you thought of it." It was an exquisite copy of that rarest little gem of Fra Angelico's painting, "The Death-Bed of the Virgin Mary,"--in time past the theme of some of my verses, which Miss Van Arsdel thus graciously recalled. "Do you know," she said, "the only drawback when one reads poems that exactly express what one would like to say, is that it makes us envious; one thinks, why couldn't _I_ have said it thus?" "Miss Van Arsdel," said I, "do you remember the lines of Longfellow: 'I shot an arrow through the air?'" "What are they?" she said. I repeated: