Then he met Ruth Earp, strolling in the opposite direction with a young girl, one of her pupils, of whom all he knew was that her name was Nellie, and that this was her first ball: a childish little thing with a wistful face. He could not decide whether to look at Ruth or to avoid her glance. She settled the point by smiling at him in a manner that could not be ignored. "Are you going to make it up to me for that waltz you missed?" said Ruth Earp. She pretended to be vexed and stern, but he knew that she was not. "Or is your programme full?" she added. "I should like to," he said simply. "But perhaps you don’t care to dance with us poor ordinary people, now you ’ve danced with the _Countess_!" she said, with a certain lofty and bitter pride. He perceived that his tone had lacked eagerness. "Don’t talk like that," he said, as if hurt. "Well," she said, "you can have the supper dance." He took her programme to write on it. "Why!" he said, "there’s a name down here for the supper dance. ’Herbert’ it looks like." "Oh!" she replied carelessly, "that’s nothing. Cross it out." So he crossed Herbert out. "Why don’t you ask Nellie here for a dance," said Ruth Earp. And Nellie blushed. He gathered that the possible honour of dancing with the supremely great man had surpassed Nellie’s modest expectations. "Can I have the next one?" he said. "Oh, yes!" Nellie timidly whispered. "It’s a polka, and you are n’t very good at polking, you know," Ruth warned him. "Still, Nellie will pull you through." Nellie laughed, in silver. The naïve child thought that Ruth was trying to joke at Denry’s expense. Her very manifest joy and pride in being seen with the unique Mr. Machin, in being the next after the Countess to dance with him, made another mirror in which Denry could discern the reflection of his vast importance. At the supper, which was worthy of the hospitable traditions of the Chell family (though served standing-up in the police-court), he learnt all the gossip of the dance from Ruth Earp; amongst other things that more than one young man had asked the Countess for a dance, and had been refused, though Ruth Earp for her part declined to believe that Aldermen and Councillors had utterly absorbed the Countess’s programme. Ruth hinted that the Countess was keeping a second dance open for him, Denry. When she asked him squarely if he meant to request another from the Countess, he said, No, positively. He knew when to let well alone, a knowledge which is more precious than a knowledge of geography. The supper was the summit of Denry’s triumph. The best people spoke to him without being introduced. And lovely creatures mysteriously and intoxicatingly discovered that programmes which had been crammed two hours before were not after all quite, quite full.