"Please sir," he replied, "I don't know how it's happened, for her Ladyship told Mr. Mackintosh to be sure and see as the newspaper ladies and gentlemen were well looked after, and he thought as they'd all had supper." It seemed incredible that Mildred should not have heard this reply, uttered so close to her; but though it fell upon her ears it did not penetrate to her mind. "Bring up supper for two, Arthur," said Goring, in his usual decisive tone. "That'll do, won't it?" he added, and turned to Mildred, ushering her into the room. "You'll have supper with me, I hope? My name's Goring; I'm Lord Ipswich's son-in-law and I live in his house; so you see it's all right." The corollary was not evident; but the mention of the name brought Mildred back to the ordinary world. So this was George Goring, the plague of his political party, the fly in the ointment of a respectable Marquis and his distinguished daughter. She had not fancied him like this. For one thing, she did not know him to be younger than his wife, and between the careworn solidity of Lady Augusta and this vivid restless personality, the five actual years of difference seemed stretched to ten. "I'm convinced it's all right, Mr. Goring," she replied, throwing herself into a chair and smiling at him sparklingly. "It must be all right. I want my supper so much I should have to accept your invitation even if you were a burglar." Goring, whose habit it was to keep moving, laughed as he walked about, one hand in his trousers pocket. "Why shouldn't I be a burglar? A burglar, with an assistant disguised as a footman, sacking the bedrooms of Lord Ipswich's house while the ball proceeds? There's copy for you! Shall I do it? 'Mr. George Goring's Celebrated Black Pearls Stolen,' would make a capital head-line. Perhaps you've heard I'd do anything to keep my name in the newspapers." "It certainly gets there pretty often," returned Mildred, politely; "and whenever it's mentioned it has an enlivening effect." The footman had reappeared and they were unfolding their dinner-napkins, sitting opposite each other at the little table. "As how, enlivening?" "Like a bit of bread dropped into a glass of flat champagne." "You think my party's like champagne? Why, it couldn't exist for a moment if it sparkled." "I was talking of newspapers, not of your party; though there's no doubt you do enliven that." "Do I? Like what? No odiously inoffensive comparisons, if you please." "Well, I have heard people say like--like a blister on the back of the neck." Goring laughed. "Thanks. That's better." "The patient's using language, but he won't really tear it off, because he knows that would hurt him more, and the blister will do him good in the end, if he bears with it."