When the curtain descended again and the great audience began to disperse, and that incomparable hour of existence was at an end, he said as he moved through the doors with his mentor, “I--I am marvelling, Jimmy, how w-wonderfully you have kept the secret of my birth.” “The secret of your birth, my son,” said Jimmy Dodson, “the secret of your birth! Why, you cuckoo, it is you, not I, who have kept the secret. You never told me, you know, although I think you ought, because my old aunt Tabitha is always questioning me about you every time I see her. The old girl declares you come of a county family.” “No no, Jimmy,” said the young man, “you must have known from the first that I was not--not of the blood royal.” “Not of the blood royal, my son!” said Mr. Dodson, with frank astonishment. “Not of the blood royal! Why, what will you be saying next? I don’t mind telling you I should have been mighty surprised had I known you were. I don’t think Octavius would have had you long on that stool, wielding that pot of paste. At the very least he would have had you under a glass case in his private room.” “I mean, Jimmy,” said the young man, “of the same blood royal as yourself, and all these happy and vigorous and beautiful street-persons--I see now, Jimmy, that they are all beautiful--who are walking forth into their native air.” “I give you up, my son,” said Mr. Dodson, with an indulgence born of three whiskies and sodas. “I can only say one thing, and that is that a mere vulgar commoner, like James Dodson, is simply incapable of following you at even a respectful distance.” “But you are not of the vulgar at all, Jimmy; it is I, William Jordan, who have considered myself to be of the kin of heroes, who am the plebeian.” “Have it as you please, my son,” said the eminent philosopher. “You are altogether beyond me to-night, you are altogether over my head.” He linked his arm through that of his excited companion. “Come on, old boy,” he said, “round to the stage-door. We might be able to get a word with Hermione Leigh.” “Y-you m-mean Hera, the white-armed goddess.” “Yes, my son, I mean Hera--or Diana--or Joan of Arc--or Jane Cakebread--or Mother Hubbard, or any other bit of skirt.” “Yes, he is a true Olympian,” muttered the young man, “he is so imperturbable. And I--and I, who would run and shout with the fever in my veins, O pious gods, what misbegotten carrion am I?” “I never saw the poor chap so absolutely balmy as he is to-night,” said Mr. Dodson, also speaking his thoughts aloud. “The poor cove is not used to a day in the sun.”