All this Todd had done dozens and dozens of times before, and all this (with Malachi’s assistance—­Richard Horn consenting—­for there was nothing too good for the great poet) would Todd do again on this eventful night.

As to the guests, this particular feast being given to the most distinguished literary genius the country had yet produced,—­certainly the most talked of—­those who were bidden were, of course, selected with more than usual care:  Mr. John P. Kennedy, the widely known author and statesman, and Mr. John H. B. Latrobe, equally noteworthy as counsellor, mathematician, and patron of the fine arts, both of whom had been Poe’s friends for years, and who had first recognized his genius; Richard Horn, who never lost an opportunity to praise him, together with Judge Pancoast, Major Clayton, the richest aristocrat about Kennedy Square and whose cellar was famous the county over—­and last, the Honorable Prim.  Not because old Seymour possessed any especial fitness one way or the other for a dinner of this kind, but because his presence would afford an underground communication by which Kate could learn how fine and splendid Harry was—­(sly old diplomat St. George!)—­and how well he had appeared at a table about which were seated the best Kennedy Square could produce.

“I’ll put you right opposite Mr. Poe, Harry—­so you can study him at your leisure,” St. George had said when discussing the placing of the guests, “and be sure you look at his hands, they are just like a girl’s, they are so soft and white.  And his eyes—­you will never forget them.  And there is an air about him too—­an air of—­well, a sort of haughty distraction—­something I can’t quite explain—­as if he had a contempt for small things—­things that you and I, and your father and all of us about here, believe in.  Blood or no blood, he’s a gentleman, even if he does come of very plain people;—­and they were players I hear.  It seems natural, when you think it over, that Latrobe and Kennedy and Horn should be men of genius, because their blood entitles them to it, but how a man raised as Mr. Poe has been should—­well—­all I can say is that he upsets all our theories.”

“But I think you are wrong, Uncle George, about his birth.  I’ve been looking him up and his grandfather was a general in the Revolution.”

“Well, I’m glad of it—­and I hope he was a very good general, and very much of a gentleman—­but there is no question of his descendant being a wonder.  But that is neither here nor there—­you’ll be right opposite and can study him in your own way.”

Mr. Kennedy arrived first.  Although his family name is the same as that which dignifies the scene of these chronicles, none of his ancestors, so far as I know, were responsible for its title.  Nor did his own domicile front on its confines.  In fact, at this period of his varied and distinguished life, he was seldom seen in Kennedy Square, his duties at Washington occupying all his time, and it was by the merest chance that he could be present.