"That slender young man with the Vandyke beard, cutting into a cake, you may not need to be told, is Patching, the painter of those delicious interiors which have been seen every year by those who had eyes to find them, in obscure corners at the rooms of the National Academy of Design. In short, Patching is the subject of a conspiracy in which the Hanging Committee is implicated. But though professional envy may place his works in the worst possible light, and for some time cast a shadow over his prospects, an independent public taste will ultimately appreciate his genius. Mark the melancholy that overspreads his features, as he tastes that glass of sherry. Next to TRUTH, melancholy is the chief characteristic of his style. In a miniature portrait which he painted of me, last year, and which is regarded as a capital likeness, he introduced a shade of sadness, which is, at least, not habitual with me."
Mr. Overtop hastened to say, that of that fact he needed no assurance.
"Without giving a minute account of all my guests, I may say generally, that they include novelists, dramatists, actors, and musicians. Some you may know by sight. The acquaintance of all you may make at a future time."
At this strong hint, Mr. Overtop replied, that he should be only too happy. He had by this time come to the conclusion that there never was a more candid and delightful widow than Mrs. Slapman; and, furthermore, that she was that rarity--a sensible woman--of which he had been so long in search. Mr. Overtop mentally hugged himself.
"By the way, sir--you will pardon the impertinence of the question--but to what profession do you belong?"
"I am a lawyer, madam," said he, fearful that the announcement would not be well received. "Fayette Overtop, firm of Overtop & Maltboy."
Mrs. Slapman mused a moment, and said:
"It is a little singular, that, among my large collection--I mean circle--of friends, there shouldn't be a single lawyer."
"As I am a single lawyer, Mrs. Slapman, it is within my power to supply that deficiency among those who are honored with your friendship." Mr. Overtop thought, with some reason, as he finished this remark, that he had never said a better thing in his life.
Mrs. Slapman's severe taste rejected Overtop's pun, but not himself, and she was about to say that she should put him on the list for her next conversazione, when another awkward interruption occurred, in this wise:
Signor Mancussi was a gentleman with an Italian name and a perfect knowledge of English, who sang bass parts in a church up town, and enjoyed the reputation of having personated the chief Druid in Norma, at an early period of the New York opera. M. Bartin played one of numerous violins at the Academy of Music, and was believed to be kept down only by a powerful combination. Three months before this New Year's day, both of these gentlemen had volunteered their services, in company with many other musical people, to give a grand concert in aid of a benevolent enterprise. To M. Bartin, as a man supposed to know something of sharp management, from his connection with the opera, was intrusted the supreme control of the whole affair. It is due to M. Bartin to say, that he tried to perform his laborious duties faithfully and with perfect justice to his associates.
When, therefore, in ordering the printing of the gigantic posters which heralded the concert, he directed his own name to be placed at the head of the "eminent artists who had offered their services for the occasion," and in type half as large again as any of the rest, he only expressed a conscientious opinion of his superiority over all of them. In this opinion his associates happened to disagree with him, each one claiming that himself, and nobody else, was entitled to typographical precedence.
Most keenly was the alleged injustice felt by Signer Mancussi, who stood at the foot of the sloping list in letters less than an inch long; and he had made a solemn vow to revenge himself on M. Bartin the first time that they met after the concert. Their simultaneous appearance at Mrs. Slapman's was that time. M. Bartin had been privately informed of the Signer's intentions, and regretted that that gentleman's ridiculous vanity should get the better of his judgment. Seeing him at Mrs. Slapman's, M. Bartin avoided the Signer's presence, fearing they might come into a collision disgraceful to the time and the place. The Signer, for the same considerate reasons, kept shy of M. Bartin. After dodging each other for a long time, they were at last brought, by accident, face to face. M. Bartin was calm. Signor Mancussi tried to be tranquil, but those small, lean black letters at the foot of the list rose vividly to his mind; and, before he could check himself, he had whispered, or hissed, between his set teeth, the word,
"SCOUNDREL!"
M. Bartin was taken unawares, but had sufficient presence of mind to reply, "You're another," in a whisper, low, but freighted with meaning.
Whereupon the Signor responded, also under his breath, "You're no gentleman." To this assertion, M. Bartin answered, with masterly irony, "And you are a gentleman, now, a'n't you?"
Up to this point the controversy had been pleasantly conducted in whispers, and was unnoticed by the bystanders; but M. Bartin's last insinuation had the strange effect of maddening the Signor still more. He lost his self-control, and said, in an audible voice:
"You're only a scraper of catgut, anyhow."
M. Bartin, also oblivious of the proprieties, retorted, louder still:
"And what are you but an infernal screech owl?"
Cries of "Hallo!" "What's the row?" "Hush!" and "For shame!" rose from all parts of the room, and the two musical gentlemen, conscious that they had grossly misconducted themselves, stepped back a yard from each other, and were immediately surrounded by several friends, and kindly told that they were a pair of fools.
Mrs. Slapman and Overtop rushed to the spot. The latter measured the two combatants with his eye, to see if he could safely undertake to pitch both, or either of them, out of the room, if requested so to do by the widow, and concluded that he could not.
Mrs. Slapman was much embarrassed by this painful outbreak. It was only three weeks ago that M. Bartin had dedicated a new quadrille to her; and but a fortnight since Signor Mancussi had sung four operatic airs gratuitously at one of her musical and dramatic soirées. But respect for herself and for her guests--especially for Mr. Overtop, of whose talents she had formed an exalted opinion--pointed out her path of duty, and she followed it. She stepped between the two disputants, and cast a look of surprise and regret at each.
"I was hasty," said Signor Mancussi.
"And I was too impulsive," said M. Bartin.
"Then, gentlemen, if you would merit my continued friendship, please make up your little difference, by shaking hands."
They recoiled from the proposition a moment, but, being pushed together by their respective friends from behind, took each other's right hand, shook it once feebly, and said distinctly, with their eyes, "We shall meet again!"
"Very well done," said Mrs. Slapman, with the air of an empress, tempered by a charming smile. "And let us hope that is the end of it. Now, Mr. Overtop, allow me to offer you some refreshment."
Mrs. Slapman was in the act of handing a glass of champagne to the favored Overtop, when an unearthly shriek was heard, which startled the steadiest nerves. This shriek was repeated three times in quick succession, and seemed to come from the sidewalk in front of the house. There was a general rush to the window; but Wilkeson, Overtop, Maltboy, and Quigg ran for the street at once, surmising the source of the cry.
There stood Captain Tonkins, in the sleigh, leaning against the dashboard, holding in one hand an empty jug, and in the other his whip. Around the sleigh were a dozen men and