Psyche frowned and shook her head, as if half sorry she had told her
little story.

"Was he handsome?" asked Miss Larkins, the believer in fate.

"I didn't particularly observe."

"It was the red-headed man, whom we call Titian: he's always on the
stairs."

"No, it wasn't; his hair was brown and curly," cried Psyche,
innocently falling into the trap.

"Like Peerybingle's baby when its cap was taken off," quoted Miss
Dickenson, who pined to drop the last two letters of her name.

"Was it Murillo, the black-eyed one?" asked the fair Cutter, for the
girls had a name for all the attitudinizers and promenaders whom they
oftenest met.

"No, he had gray eyes, and very fine ones they were too," answered
Psyche, adding, as if to herself, "he looked as I imagine Michael
Angelo might have looked when young."

"Had he a broken nose, like the great Mike?" asked an irreverent
damsel.

"If he had, no one would mind it, for his head is splendid; he took
his hat off, so I had a fine view. He isn't handsome, but he'll _do_