This (as the reader, if at all acquainted with our literary biography, need scarcely be told) was not her real name.  She had assumed it, in the first instance, as her magazine signature; and, as it accorded well with something imperial which her friends attributed to this lady’s figure and deportment, they half-laughingly adopted it in their familiar intercourse with her.  She took the appellation in good part, and even encouraged its constant use; which, in fact, was thus far appropriate, that our Zenobia, however humble looked her new philosophy, had as much native pride as any queen would have known what to do with.

III.  A KNOT OF DREAMERS

Zenobia bade us welcome, in a fine, frank, mellow voice, and gave each of us her hand, which was very soft and warm.  She had something appropriate, I recollect, to say to every individual; and what she said to myself was this:—­“I have long wished to know you, Mr. Coverdale, and to thank you for your beautiful poetry, some of which I have learned by heart; or rather it has stolen into my memory, without my exercising any choice or volition about the matter.  Of course—­permit me to say you do not think of relinquishing an occupation in which you have done yourself so much credit.  I would almost rather give you up as an associate, than that the world should lose one of its true poets!”

“Ah, no; there will not be the slightest danger of that, especially after this inestimable praise from Zenobia,” said I, smiling, and blushing, no doubt, with excess of pleasure.  “I hope, on the contrary, now to produce something that shall really deserve to be called poetry,—­true, strong, natural, and sweet, as is the life which we are going to lead,—­something that shall have the notes of wild birds twittering through it, or a strain like the wind anthems in the woods, as the case may be.”

“Is it irksome to you to hear your own verses sung?” asked Zenobia, with a gracious smile.  “If so, I am very sorry, for you will certainly hear me singing them sometimes, in the summer evenings.”

“Of all things,” answered I, “that is what will delight me most.”

While this passed, and while she spoke to my companions, I was taking note of Zenobia’s aspect; and it impressed itself on me so distinctly, that I can now summon her up, like a ghost, a little wanner than the life but otherwise identical with it.  She was dressed as simply as possible, in an American print (I think the dry-goods people call it so), but with a silken kerchief, between which and her gown there was one glimpse of a white shoulder.  It struck me as a great piece of good fortune that there should be just that glimpse.  Her hair, which was dark, glossy, and of singular abundance, was put up rather soberly and primly—­without curls, or other ornament, except a single flower.  It was an exotic of rare beauty, and as fresh as if the hothouse gardener had just clipt it from the stem.  That flower has struck deep root into my memory.  I can both see it and smell it, at this moment.  So brilliant, so rare, so costly as it must have been, and yet enduring only for a day, it was more indicative of the pride and pomp which had a luxuriant growth in Zenobia’s character than if a great diamond had sparkled among her hair.