“I am sorry Mr. Vane should keep you waiting.” “By no means, madam; it is fortunate--I mean, it procures me the pleasure of” (here articulation became obstructed) “your society, madam. Besides, the servants of the Muse are used to waiting. What we are not used to is” (here the white hand filled his glass) “being waited upon by Hebe and the Twelve Graces, whose health I have the honor “--(Deglutition). “A poet!” cried Mabel; “oh! I am so glad! Little did I think ever to see a living poet! Dear heart! I should not have known, if you had not told me. Sir, I love poetry!” “It is in your face, madam.” Triplet instantly whipped out his manuscript, put a plate on one corner of it, and a decanter on the other, and begged her opinion of this trifle, composed, said he, “in honor of a lady Mr. Vane entertains to-day.” “Oh!” said Mrs. Vane, and colored with pleasure. How ungrateful she had been! Here was an attention!--For, of course, she never doubted that the verses were in honor of her arrival. “'Bright being--'” sang out Triplet. “Nay, sir,” said Mabel; “I think I know the lady, and it would be hardly proper of me--” “Oh, madam!” said Triplet, solemnly; “strictly correct, madam!” And he spread his hand out over his bosom. “Strictly!--'Blunderbuss' (my poetical name, madam) never stooped to the taste of the town. 'Bright being, thou--'” “But you must have another glass of wine first, and a slice of the haunch.” “With alacrity, madam.” He laid in a fresh stock of provisions. Strange it was to see them side by side! _he,_ a Don Quixote, with cordage instead of lines in his mahogany face, and clothes hanging upon him; _she,_ smooth, duck-like, delicious, and bright as an opening rose fresh with dew! She watched him kindly, archly and demurely; and still plied him, countrywise, with every mortal thing on the table. But the poet was not a boa-constrictor, and even a boa-constrictor has an end. Hunger satisfied, his next strongest feeling, simple vanity, remained to be contented. As the last morsel went in out came: “'Bright being, thou whose ra--'” “No! no!” said she, who fancied herself (and not without reason) the bright being. “Mr. Vane intended them for a surprise.” “As you please, madam;” and the disappointed bore sighed. “But you would have liked them, for the theme inspired me. The kindest, the most generous of women! Don't you agree with me, madam?” Mabel Vane opened her eyes. “Hardly, sir,” laughed she. “If you knew her as I do.” “I ought to know her better, sir.” “Ay, indeed! Well, madam, now her kindness to me, for instance--a poor devil like me. The expression, I trust, is not disagreeable to you, madam? If so, forgive me, and consider it withdrawn.” “La, sir! civility is so cheap, if you go to that.” “Civility, ma'am? Why, she has saved me from despair--from starvation, perhaps.” “Poor thing! Well, indeed, sir, you looked--you looked--what a shame! and you a poet.” “From an epitaph to an epic, madam.”