At half-past seven o’clock a knock was heard at the door of Melinda’s boudoir.
“Ichabod, open the door,” she said.
Her brother obeyed the command. As Barclay and Walter entered the room, they beheld their fair hostess seated at the center table, with a volume of poems resting on her lap, while one hand supported her forehead, the elbow resting on the table. She had practiced this attitude during the afternoon before a looking-glass, and considered it effective.
She lifted her eyes slowly, appearing wrapt in meditation.
“Pardon my pensive preoccupation,” she said, rising and greeting her guests. “I was communing with Milton. Do you often commune with him, Mr. Barclay?”
“I haven’t had much time for that lately, Miss Jones. My friend here is more poetical than I am.”
“Indeed, Mr. Howard, I am glad to hear that. You and me will be congenial.”
“You flatter me, Miss Jones,” said Walter, looking sober, but wanting to laugh.
“Do you ever provoke the muse, Mr. Howard?” asked Melinda, who probably meant invoke.
“Sometimes,” said Walter. “I hear you are an authoress.”