Three minutes of tense silence passed. Both ladies appeared to expect him to say something. Of this fact, however, Mr. William Jordan was not at all conscious. His excitement, his nervousness, his self-conscious effacement had yielded place to a kind of religious awe. He, William Jordan, was slowly beginning to realize that unawares he had had the unspeakable temerity to enter the presence of the white-armed Hera. As far as he was concerned, the occasion was not one for speech, even had he been in a physical condition to indulge in such an act of vandalism. He had quite enough to do to glance at her furtively, sideways, and to try to catch the sound of her breath. At last the goddess looked at him very boldly and directly, right into his shy and bewildered eyes that were set so deep. “Well?” she said. By a wonderful effort of the mind, which was yet purely involuntary, and was only rendered possible by his almost occult faculty of a never-failing courtesy, the young man grasped the fact that the goddess was under the impression that he had dared to address a remark to her. “I--I b-beg your p-p-p-pardon,” he stammered painfully. “I--I d-don’t think I--I s-said a-anything.” These words and particularly the mode of their utterance caused the goddess to titter in a very audible and unmistakable manner. Her companion followed her example. “He d-doesn’t t-think he s-said a-anything,” said one lady to the other, “he d-doesn’t t-think he s-said a-anything.” Miss Hermione Leigh then turned to Mr. William Jordan. “You _are_ funny,” she said. Before Mr. Jordan could find a fitting rejoinder to an indictment which seemed to baffle him completely, his friend Mr. Davis sauntered up to the sofa. His hands were in his pockets; his demeanour was one of inimitable nonchalance. “Hullo!” exclaimed Chrissie, “look what’s blown in! How’s Percival?” “So, so,” said Mr. Davis, with an air of polite weariness. “I s’pose you know Hermione?” “Only on Saturdays,” said Mr. Davis, with a humility that seemed to be finely considered, “when I draw my screw.” “Oh come, Percy,” said Miss Hermione Leigh, with amiable protest, “I reckon to know you at least two days a week since you have had a rise in your salary.” “Not you,” said Mr. Davis, with quiet good nature. “One supper at the Troc of a Saturday with a half-bottle of Pommery, and it is all blewed bar the washing money. You know very well, Hermione, you cut mugs like me dead when we come sneaking out of Lockhart’s all the rest of the week.” “Not quite so much of the mug, Percy,” said Miss Hermione Leigh, “and not quite so much of the Pommery. You don’t average three bottles a year.” Before Mr. Davis could deny this impeachment in adequate terms, the voice of Mr. Dodson was heard proclaiming from the piano at the other end of the room that Mr. Percival Davis, the celebrated tenor, would sing the no-less celebrated song, “I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”