ady
caught the _fleurette_ upon her crochet needle, reviewed it carelessly,
and finally decided to accept it; an event that I had undoubtedly
foreseen, for the compliment was a graceful and artistic one. But
brothers, as you, Gustav, my boy, have long since discovered, are not
events, and I was presently consigned to the 'elephant chair' in the
corner, with a portfolio of sketches that Henrietta had brought from
over the sea--and the dames continued, in charming obliviousness of my
presence.

'Girls,' said Henrietta, having deposited my compliment snugly in her
little workbasket, whence it may issue to the delectation of some future
young lady group, 'how are you going to entertain me? Such a Wandering
Jew as I am! A perfect Ahasuerus! _What_ a novelty it will be that will
interest _me_!' and with a most laughingly wearied air, the pretty
eyebrows were raised, and waves of weariness floated over the golden
hair in its scarlet net.

Fanny looked concerned. 'We may have a week of opera.'

'I've been--in--Milan,' returned Henrietta, with a well-counterfeited
air of the disdain with which Mrs. De Lancy Stevens views all republican
institutions since her year in Europe. Bertha laughed.

'You have grown literary, astronomical perhaps, with your star gazing,
and Len has become such a Mitchellite of late, that two shelves of his
bookcase are filled with works on the heavenly bodies. What a rapture
you will be in at the sight!'

'Quite an Aquinas,' said Henrietta, with gravity.

'How so, Harry,' asked Fanny, after a pause, during which she had been
deciding that her friend meant--Galileo!

'Oh, he wrote about angels, you know; said these heavenly bodies were
made of thick clouds, and some other nonsense, of which I remember
nothing.'

I, in my corner, was devoutly thankful that angels now assume more
tangible shapes, which chivalric sentiment, finding expression only in
my eyes, was recognized but by Henrietta, who rewarded me with a
lightning smile.

'Bertha, my queen,' continued she, as that lady's serene countenance
beamed upon her in apparently immovable calmness, '_does_ anything ever
arouse you? Have you forgotten, my impenetrable spirit, the sad days of
yore, when we sobbed out grand _arias_ to the wretched accompaniment of
Professor Tirili, blistered our young fingers on guitar strings, waded
unprofitably in oceans of Locke and Bacon, and were oftener at the apex
of a triangle than its comfortable base? And y