It would have seemed at first that he had diverted attention from the fair author of “The Poetry of Flowers” to himself, but erelong—­no one knew just how it came to pass—­Edgar Poe was sitting upon an ottoman drawn close to the Chippendale chair, and the two lions were deep in earnest and intimate conversation upon which no one else dared intrude.  The furtive eye of Rufus Griswold marked well the evident attraction between these two beautiful and gifted beings—­poets—­and something like murder awoke in his heart.

The tete-a-tete was interrupted by Miss Lynch, who declared that she voiced the wish of all present in requesting that Mr. Poe would recite “The Raven.”

All the candles save enough to make (with the fire’s glow) a dim twilight, were put out, and the poet took his stand at one end of the long room.

A hush fell upon the company and in a quiet, clear, musical voice, he began the familiar words.

There was scarcely a gesture—­just the motionless figure, the pale, classic face, which was dim in the half-light, and the deep, rich voice.

Miss Lynch was the first to break the silence following the final “Nevermore.”  Moving toward him with her easy, distinguished step, she thanked him in a few low-spoken words.  Mrs. Osgood, rising gracefully from her chair, followed her example, with Dr. Griswold at her heels, and in a few moments more the whole room was in an awed and subdued hum.

The girl-wife came in for her share of the lionizing.  Her appearance was in marked contrast to that of the richly apparelled women about her.  The simplest dress was the only kind within her reach—­for which she may have consoled herself with the thought that it was the kind that most adorned her.  She wore tonight a little frock made by her own fingers, of some crimson woolen stuff, without a vestige of ornament save a bit of lace, yellow with age, at the throat.  Her hair was parted above the placid brow, looped over her ears and twisted in a loose knot at the back of her head, in the prevailing fashion for a young matron; which with her youthful face, gave her a most quaint and charming appearance.

Her husband’s coat had seen long service, but it was neatly brushed and darned, and the ability to wear threadbare clothing with distinction was not the least of Edgar Poe’s talents.  Beside his worn, but cared-for apparel, costly dress often seemed tawdry.

* * * * *

Out from the warmth and the light and the perfume and the luxury and the praise of the beautiful drawing-room with its distinguished assemblage,—­out into the streets of New York—­into the bleakness and the darkness of the winter’s night—­stepped Edgar Poe and his wife.  Virginia was wrapped against the cold in a Paisley shawl that had been one of Mother Clemm’s bridal presents, while Edgar wore the military cape he had at West Point and which, except in times of unusual prosperity, had served him as a great-coat ever since.