The next lady to whom his attention was directed was extremely resplendent and also extremely _decolletée_. In spite of her air of magnificence, her blazing jewels, the gorgeous texture of her skin and her clothes, there seemed to be something curiously familiar about her. The mystery was solved, however, almost before it had had time to become one. “Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson, “what price our fat friend?” “Ain’t he just utter,” said the gorgeous creature, giving Mr. Jordan a playful flick with her fan. “I am sure mother ought to be proud of her boy to-night.” As Mr. Jordan bowed very low before her, the gorgeous lady made a very remarkable and visibly distorted “face” at another gorgeous lady who sat by her side. In sheer splendour and profuse magnificence all paled their ineffectual fires before that of this fourth lady who sat by Chrissie’s side. When the young man first ventured to look at this apparition of female loveliness, the power of breathing was almost denied to him. In beauty she was ravishing; divinely tall apparently, and most divinely fair. She had the look of a goddess: young, brilliant, queenly, with a noble fire in her glance. Her clothes in their ample majesty and her jewels in their lustre made those of Chrissie appear almost tawdry by comparison. Never until that moment had William Jordan divined, not even in that remote and ill-starred adventure of his childhood, that actual authentic goddesses still walked the earth, clad in their ravishing flesh and blood. As this vision burst upon his gaze William Jordan could scarcely repress an exclamation of awe and wonder and delight. “Miss Hermione Leigh,” said Mr. Dodson, “Mr. Jordan; Mr. Jordan--Miss Hermione Leigh.” To the exaggerated deference of which she was the recipient on the part of Mr. William Jordan, this divinity returned a curt and aloof nod, which might hardly have been interpreted as a nod at all; and at the same moment she made a gesture to Chrissie which partook of the nature of putting out her tongue. “Ain’t he marvellous?” said Miss Hermione Leigh to her friend Chrissie in an eloquent aside. “Where did Jimmy dig _him_ up? Has he taken out a licence for him?” “A gilt mug,” said Chrissie in the matter-of-fact tone that never forsook her. “Oh, oh!” said Miss Hermione Leigh, as if sudden light had suffused her robust intelligence; “that explains it.” She turned an arch glance upon Mr. William Jordan. “Not going to run away, cocky, are you?” said the divinity. “Ought to be room for you and me on the same settee.” She patted the sofa on which she sat with a white-gloved paw. Mr. Jordan felt his ears to be burning. A fiery haze was floating before his eyes. He was trembling in every limb. With a supreme effort he managed to take a seat on the sofa, and as close to the goddess as he dare.