ab was heard at last--at last, Mary thought--in
reality a few minutes before the time appointed; and the poet and Mr.
Heron entered. The poet was somewhat pale, and a little preoccupied. He
had a considerable bulk of manuscript in his hand. The manuscript was in
itself a work of art, as he had already explained to Victor. Each page
was a large leaf of elaborately rough and expensive paper, and the lines
of poetry, written out with exquisitely careful penmanship, occupied but
a small central plot, so to speak, of the field of white. The margins
were rich in quaint fantasies of drawing, by the poet himself, and
various artists of his brotherhood. Sometimes a thought, or incident, or
phrase of the text was illustrated on the margin, in a few odd, rapid
strokes. Sometimes the artist, without having read the text, contributed
some fancy or whimsy of his own; sometimes it was a mere monogram,
sometimes a curious, perplexed, pictorial conceit; now merely the face
of a pretty woman, and again some bewildering piece of eccentric
symbolism, about the meaning whereof all observers differed. It must be
owned that as Minola looked at these ornaments of the manuscript, she
could not help feeling a secret throb of satisfaction at the evidence
they gave that the reading would not be quite so long as the first sight
of the mass of paper had led her to expect.

Mr. Blanchet did not do much in the way of preliminary conversation. He
left all that to Minola and Victor; and the latter was seldom wanting in
talk when he believed himself to have sympathetic listeners. It should
be said that the well-ordered guitar effect proved a failure; for Mr.
Blanchet soon after entering the room flung himself into what was to
have been a poetic attitude on the sofa, and came rather awkwardly on
the guitar, and was a little vexed at the thought of being made to seem
ridiculous.

Every one was anxious that a beginning of the reading should be made,
and no one seemed to know exactly how to start it. Suddenly Mr. Blanchet
arose, as one awakened from a dream.

"May I beg, Miss Grey, for three favors?"

Minola bowed and waited.

"First, I cannot read by daylight. My poems are not made for day. They
need a peculiar setting. May I ask that the windows be closed and the
lamps lighted? I see you have lamps."

"Certainly, if you wish," and Minola promptly rang the bell.

"Thank you very much. In the second place I would ask that no sign of
approval or other