Mrs. Jordan was at present fairly dazzling on the subject of the way that, in the practice of her fairy art, as she called it, she more than peeped in—she penetrated. There was not a house of the great kind—and it was of course only a question of those, real homes of luxury—in which she was not, at the rate such people now had things, all over the place. The girl felt before the picture the cold breath of disinheritance as much as she had ever felt it in the cage; she knew moreover how much she betrayed this, for the experience of poverty had begun, in her life, too early, and her ignorance of the requirements of homes of luxury had grown, with other active knowledge, a depth of simplification. She had accordingly at first often found that in these colloquies she could only pretend she understood. Educated as she had rapidly been by her chances at Cocker’s, there were still strange gaps in her learning—she could never, like Mrs. Jordan, have found her way about one of the “homes.” Little by little, however, she had caught on, above all in the light of what Mrs. Jordan’s redemption had materially made of that lady, giving her, though the years and the struggles had naturally not straightened a feature, an almost super-eminent air. There were women in and out of Cocker’s who were quite nice and who yet didn’t look well; whereas Mrs. Jordan looked well and yet, with her extraordinarily protrusive teeth, was by no means quite nice. It would seem, mystifyingly, that it might really come from all the greatness she could live with. It was fine to hear her talk so often of dinners of twenty and of her doing, as she said, exactly as she liked with them. She spoke as if, for that matter, she invited the company. “They simply give me the table—all the rest, all the other effects, come afterwards.” CHAPTER VII. “Then you _do_ see them?” the girl again asked. Mrs. Jordan hesitated, and indeed the point had been ambiguous before. “Do you mean the guests?” Her young friend, cautious about an undue exposure of innocence, was not quite sure. “Well—the people who live there.” “Lady Ventnor? Mrs. Bubb? Lord Rye? Dear, yes. Why they _like_ one.” “But does one personally _know_ them?” our young lady went on, since that was the way to speak. “I mean socially, don’t you know?—as you know _me_.” “They’re not so nice as you!” Mrs. Jordan charmingly cried. “But I _shall_ see more and more of them.” Ah this was the old story. “But how soon?” “Why almost any day. Of course,” Mrs. Jordan honestly added, “they’re nearly always out.” “Then why do they want flowers all over?” “Oh that doesn’t make any difference.” Mrs. Jordan was not philosophic; she was just evidently determined it _shouldn’t_ make any. “They’re awfully interested in my ideas, and it’s inevitable they should meet me over them.” Her interlocutress was sturdy enough. “What do you call your ideas?”