Matthew Maltboy, with the rashness of youth, opened the verbal engagement, by remarking that it was a fine day. This wretched conventionalism was met by a "Very," so obviously sarcastic, that Marcus Wilkeson decided not to utter a remark which was at that moment on his lips. At this embarrassing juncture, Fayette Overtop came to the rescue. "As we alighted from our sleigh, Mrs. Slapman, I noticed how firmly the snow at the edge of the street was pressed down by the feet of the hundreds who have called on you; and I could not but think how truly that white surface, upon which the prints of so many boots were beautifully blended, typified the purity of the motives which brought the owners of those boots to your door." "A most original and charming remark!" said Mrs. Slapman. "I must repeat it to Chickson. The author of 'A Snowflake's Lament' will appreciate that felicitous observation. You have heard of Chickson?" Mr. Overtop read new books, magazines, literary papers, in considerable quantities, but did not remember to have ever met with the name. Speaking upon impulse, and to avoid explanation, however, he said: "Oh, yes--certainly, but have not the pleasure of his acquaintance." "You should know each other," said Mrs. Slapman. "Excuse me a minute." She ran with girlish haste to the other end of the parlors, and brought back an undersized young man. When he had been introduced to Overtop, and shaken hands with him, the enthusiastic hostess quoted, somewhat imperfectly, the beautiful conceit which Overtop had just uttered, and remarked that it would be a capital subject for a poem. Mr. Chickson turned his eyes upward to the ceiling, and then downward to the floor, as if he were committing what he had heard to memory, and then said it was very curious, but he had thought of the same theme before, and was intending to write a poem on it next week. "Now, that's just like you, you provoking creature!" said Mrs. Slapman, tapping the poet playfully with her fan. "It's really selfish of you to keep all your poetical thoughts for your poems." Mr. Chickson smiled pleasantly, but said nothing; and when Mrs. Slapman's attention was momentarily attracted by a passing remark from another person, the poet improved the opportunity to slip away and take another glass of champagne in the corner. "Ah! gone, is he?" said Mrs. Slapman, remarking his disappearance. "Though one of the most promising of our young poets, he is dull enough in conversation. It may be said of him, as of Goldsmith, 'He writes like an angel, but talks like poor Poll.' You may have read his poem, 'Echoes of the Empyrean,' published in the _Weekly Lotus_." Mr. Overtop was wicked enough to say that he had read and admired it.