Karl's clothes, it is true, were scarcely the garb to be hoped for in so marked a man. The dandies of Gra.s.sy Ford noted complacently that his plain, gray, wrinkled suit did not compare for style and newness with their own, while they wore at their throats the latest cravats of emerald and purple loveliness. Karl's tie was black, and a plain and pinless bow which drooped dejectedly. His hat was a mere soft, weather-beaten, shapeless thing, and he walked on Sunday with gloveless hands. Miss Johnson, a reigning belle, tells how he once escorted her from the post-office to her father's gate, talking of Wordsworth all the way, and all unconscious of the Sun Dial burrs still clinging to his coat!

Let.i.tia, for one, declared that she was not disappointed in the author of _Sleepington Fair_. In honor of her old pupil she gave a dinner, and spent such thought upon its menu and took such pains with its service, lest it should offend a New-Yorker's epicurean eye, it is remembered still, and not merely because it was the only literary dinner Gra.s.sy Ford has known. There was some agitation among the invited guests as to the formality involved in a dinner to a lion--even though that lion might be seen commonly with burrs in his tail. The pride and honor of Gra.s.sy Ford was at stake, and the matter was the more important as the worthy fathers of the town seldom owned dress-suits in those days. For a time, I believe, when I was a boy, Mr. Jewell, the banker, was the sole possessor, and became thereby, no less than by virtue of the manners which accompany the occasional wearing of so suave a garment in so small a town--our first real gentleman. In his case, however, the ownership was the less surprising in that he was known to enjoy New York connections, on his mother's side.

Now, to those who consulted Let.i.tia as to the precise demands of the approaching feast, she explained, gracefully, that they would be welcome in any dress--adding, however, for the gentlemen's benefit, and hopefully no doubt, for she had the occasion in heart and hand, that the conventional garb after six o'clock was a coat with tails. As a result of the conference two guests-to-be might have been seen through a tailor's window, standing coatless and erect upon a soap-box, much straighter than it was their wont to stand, much fuller of chest, robin-like, and with hips thrown neatly back--to match, as the Colonel said. Two other gentlemen of the dinner-party told their wives bluntly that they would go "_as_ usual," or they would be--not go at all, before which edicts their dames salaamed.

Let.i.tia counted on five dress-suits, at least, including the author's and my own. Mine I must wear, she said, or she would be shamed forever; so I put it on when the night arrived, wormed my way cautiously into its outgrown folds, only to find then, to my pain, that an upright posture alone could preserve its dignity and mine.

The hour arrived, and with it the Buxtons, old friends and neighbors; Dr. Jamieson, h.o.m.oeopathic but otherwise beyond reproach, and Miss Jamieson, his daughter, who could read Browning before breakfast, much, I suppose, as some robust men on empty stomachs smoke strong cigars; the Gallowses, not wanted over-much, but asked to keep the white wings of peace hovering in our hills; the Jewells, and some one I've forgotten, and then the Buhls--Mr. Buhl smiling, but un.o.btrusive to the ear, Mrs.

Buhl radiant and gracious, and pervading the a.s.semblage with a dowagerial rustling of lavender silk. To my mind the quieter woman in the plain black gown adorned only by an old-lace collar and antique pin, her hair the whiter for her cheeks now rosy with agitation, her eyes shining with the joy of the first great function she had ever given, was the loveliest figure among them all.

Last came two plain, una.s.suming folk, though proud enough of that only son of theirs, and then--

"_Oh!_" cries Mrs. Buhl, so suddenly, so ecstatically that the hum ceases and every head is turned. "_Mister_ St. John!"

It is indeed the author of _Sleepington Fair_. And behold the lion!--a slight and faltering figure, pausing upon the threshold, burrless indeed, but oh!--in that old sack suit of gray!

Let.i.tia bore the shock much better than might be expected. She changed color, it is true, but the flush came back at once, and, standing loyally at his side, she led the lion into the room.

It was a trying moment. He was an Author--he had written a Book--but we were thirteen to his one, and four dress-suits besides! Thirteen to one, if you omit his parents, and four dress-shirts, remember, bulging and crackling before his dazzled eyes! New York wavered and fell back, and the first skirmish was Gra.s.sy Ford's.

At the same instant it was whispered anxiously in my ear that the ices had not arrived, but I counselled patience, and dinner was proclaimed without delay. The lion and Let.i.tia led the procession to the feast, and I have good reason for the statement that he was a happier lion when we were seated and he had put his legs away. Still, even then he could scarcely be called at ease. Once only did he talk as if he loved his theme, and then it was solely with Let.i.tia, who had mentioned Troublesome, out of the goodness of her heart, as I believe. His face lighted at the name, and he talked so gladly that all other converse ceased. What was the lion roaring of so gently there? Startled to hear no other voices, he stopped abruptly, and, seeing our curious faces all about him, dropped his eyes, abashed, and kept them on his plate. Then Mrs. Buhl, famous in such emergencies, came to the rescue.

"Oh, Mr. St. John," she said, while we all sat listening, "I've wanted to ask you: how did you come to write _Sleepington Fair_?"

"Oh," he replied, reddening, "I--I wanted to--that was all."

"I see," she replied.

"Do you like 'Sordello'?" asked Miss Jamieson, in the awkward silence that ensued.

"Well, really--I cannot say; I have never read it," was his confession.

"Not read 'Sordello'!"

"No."

"Let's see, that's Poe, isn't it?" asked a young dress-shirt, swelling visibly, emboldened to the guess by the lion's discomfiture.

"Robert Browning," replied the lady, with a look of scorn, and the dress-shirt sank again.

"New York is a great place, isn't it?" volunteered Jimmy Gallows.

"Yes," said the lion.

"Been up the Statue of Liberty, I suppose?" Jimmy went on.

"No," said the lion.

"What!" cried the chorus. "Never been up the--"

"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Jewell, who was deaf. Mr. Buxton solemnly inclined his lips to her anxious ear and shouted:

"_He has never been up the Statue of Liberty._"

"Oh!" said the lady.

The silence was profound.

"What, _never_?" piped Jimmy Gallows.

"Never," said the lion, shaking his mane a little ominously. "I have never been a tourist."

Let.i.tia mentioned Sun Dial, and would have saved the day, I think, had not Mrs. Buhl leaned forward with the sweetest of alluring smiles.

"Oh, Mr. St. John," she said, "I've been going to ask you--in fact, for a long, long time I have wanted to know, and I wonder now if you won't tell me: how do authors"--she paused significantly--"how do authors get their books accepted?"

A dress-shirt crackled, but was frowned upon.

"What did he say?" asked the lady who was deaf.

"_He hasn't said anything yet_," roared Mr. Buxton.

"Oh!"

"Do tell us," urged Mrs. Buhl. "Do, Mr. St. John. I almost called you Karl."

"Was it a conundrum?" inquired the deaf lady, perceiving that it had been a poser.

"_No. Question: how do authors get their books accepted?_"

"Yes--how do they?" urged Mrs. Buhl.

"Why," said the lion at last, for all the table hung upon his answer, "by writing them well enough--I suppose."

It was a weak answer. There was no satisfaction in it, no meat, no pith at all, nothing to carry home with you. Mrs. Buhl said, "Oh!"

"To what, then," piped Jimmy Gallows, "do you attribute your success?"

He was a goaded lion, one could see quite plainly; the strain was telling on his self-control.

"It is not worth mentioning, Mr. Gallows," he replied, stiffly.

"Mr. St. John," Let.i.tia interposed, in a quiet voice, "was just now telling me that there is no music in all New York to compare with Troublesome's. Shall we go into the other room?"

That night, when the last guest had departed, I asked Let.i.tia, "Well, what do you think of the author?"

"_I_ am not disappointed," she replied.

"Not much of a talker, though?" I suggested.