“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.