ed; you know I always wear a posy into town to give me
inspiration. I didn't care for the dusty flowers, and told him so, and
hurried away before any one came. At the top of the stairs I peeped
over the railing, and there he was, gathering up every one of those
half-dead violets as carefully as if they had been tea-roses."

"Psyche Dean, you have met your fate this day!" exclaimed a third
damsel, with straw-colored tresses, and a good deal of weedy shrubbery
in her hat, which gave an Ophelia-like expression to her sentimental
countenance.

Psyche frowned and shook her head, as if half sorry she had told her
little story.

"Was he handsome?" asked Miss Larkins, the believer in fate.

"I didn't particularly observe."

"It was the red-headed man, whom we call Titian: he's always on the
stairs."

"No, it wasn't; his hair was brown and curly," cried Psyche,
innocently falling into the trap.

"Like Peerybingle's baby when its cap was taken off," quoted Miss
Dickenson, who pined to drop the last two letters of her name.

"Was it Murillo, the black-eyed one?" asked the fair Cutter, for the
girls had a name for all the attitudinizers and promenaders whom they
oftenest met.

"No, he had gray eyes, and very fine ones they were too," answered
Psyche, adding, as if to herself, "he looked as I imagine Michael
Angelo might have looked when young."

"Had he a broken nose, like the great Mike?" asked an irreverent
damsel.

"If he had, no one would mind it, for his head is splendid; he took
his hat off, so I had a fine view. He isn't handsome, but he'll _do_
something," said Psyche, prophetically, as she recalled the strong,
ambitious face which she had often observed, but never mentioned
before.

"Well, dear, considering that you didn't 'particularly look' at the
man, you've given us a very good idea of his appearance. We'll call
him Michael Angelo, and he shall be your idol. I prefer stout old
Rembrandt myself, and Larkie adores that dandified Raphael," said the
lively Cutter, slapping away at Homer's bald pate energetically, as
she spoke.

"Raphael is a dear, but Rubens is more to my taste now," returned Miss
Larkins. "He was in the hall yesterday talking with Sir Joshua, who
had his inevitable umbrella, like a true Englishman. Just as I came
up, the umbrella fell right before me. I started back; Sir Joshua
laughed, but Rubens said, 'Deuce take it!' and caught up the umbrella,
giving me a never-to-be-forgotten look.