At the stage-door they waited patiently for the apparition of the goddess. Various divinities, whose immortal qualities were effectually dissembled by straw hats and tailor-made costumes, came forth and went their way. Some of these had a nod for Mr. Dodson, whose finished manner, general air of friendliness, and openhanded liberality “when he was in brass,” made him a welcome addition to any society which he chose to enter. “Did you notice the fairy who nodded, my son?” said Mr. Dodson, with an air of pride, which his companion felt to be natural. “That was Vi Nicholson. A bit of mustard is Violet. She will be on at the Hilarity soon.” “You mean Briseis?” “Yes, my son, I mean Briseis--or Mother Brownrigg--or Lady Jane Grey. Hullo, here’s Hermione.” As the divinity approached, with her straw hat tilted with serene indifference over her eyes, and her skirt sweeping the dust of the narrow alley which led to the stage-door, William Jordan clutched the arm of his mentor fiercely. He felt his excitement to be overcoming him. “Hullo, Jimmy,” said the divinity, with the particular wave of the hand that then happened to be fashionable. “Is the Bart about?” inquired Mr. Dodson. “No,” said the divinity. “He has gone to Cowes with his ma.” “Well, I can’t spring more than stout and oysters,” said Mr. Dodson. “Don’t get many winners these times. Are you taking any?” “Don’t mind,” said the goddess, with easy condescension. “Come on then, round the corner.” “Why,” said the goddess, “if that ain’t our poet, our own live little, tame little pet poet. What will mother say that her boy has been out so late? Been to a naughty place, too.” “How--how--how do you do?” stammered William Jordan hoarsely, as he removed his hat and bowed low. “Oh, chuck it!” said the goddess, “or the crowd will think you are doing it for money.” As they entered the saloon, in which they proposed to partake of supper, Mr. Dodson said to the goddess, “Kid, I’ll lay you a shilling you can’t make the poet tackle stout and oysters.” “A bet,” said that good-natured divinity. On the appearance of these robust delicacies, Mr. Dodson laid a dozen oysters, a pint of stout, and a plate of brown bread-and-butter before Mr. William Jordan. “Now then, my son,” said Mr. Dodson, with a wink at the goddess, “show Hera what you can do.” A shudder of horror invaded the young man’s frame as he cast a glance of appeal at that stern deity. “Not a bit of use, Mr. Tennyson,” said the relentless one, “you don’t leave this table until you have taken your whack.”