when published, not very long ago, and which those who read are very apt to read a second time, and to leave on their tables for frequent reference.  But we have never asked her.  I do not think she wants to be famous.  How she comes to be unmarried is a mystery to me; it must be that she has found nobody worth caring enough for.  I wish she would furnish us with the romance which, as I said, our tea-table needs to make it interesting.  Perhaps the new-comer will make love to her,—­I should think it possible she might fancy him.

And who is the new-comer?  He is a Counsellor and a Politician.  Has a good war record.  Is about forty-five years old, I conjecture.  Is engaged in a great law case just now.  Said to be very eloquent.  Has an intellectual head, and the bearing of one who has commanded a regiment or perhaps a brigade.  Altogether an attractive person, scholarly, refined has some accomplishments not so common as they might be in the class we call gentlemen, with an accent on the word.

There is also a young Doctor, waiting for his bald spot to come, so that he may get into practice.

We have two young ladies at the table,—­the English girl referred to in a former number, and an American girl of about her own age.  Both of them are students in one of those institutions—­I am not sure whether they call it an “annex” or not; but at any rate one of those schools where they teach the incomprehensible sort of mathematics and other bewildering branches of knowledge above the common level of high-school education.  They seem to be good friends, and form a very pleasing pair when they walk in arm in arm; nearly enough alike to seem to belong together, different enough to form an agreeable contrast.

Of course we were bound to have a Musician at our table, and we have one who sings admirably, and accompanies himself, or one or more of our ladies, very frequently.

Such is our company when the table is full.  But sometimes only half a dozen, or it may be only three or four, are present.  At other times we have a visitor or two, either in the place of one of our habitual number, or in addition to it.  We have the elements, we think, of a pleasant social gathering,—­different sexes, ages, pursuits, and tastes,—­all that is required for a “symphony concert” of conversation.  One of the curious questions which might well be asked by those who had been with us on different occasions would be, “How many poets are there among you?” Nobody can answer this question.  It is a point of etiquette with us not to press our inquiries about these anonymous poems too sharply, especially if any of them betray sentiments which would not bear rough handling.