Mr. William Jordan, Junior, was honoured with this confidence while proceeding to a luncheon to be partaken of in Mr. Dodson’s company, and by his express invitation, at the refreshment buffet annexed to the Brontë Hotel, which was situated in a by-street off Trafalgar Square. Mr. Dodson, who needless to say selected this house of refreshment and led the way thereto, ordered of a gorgeous lady in a scarlet blouse and large yellow earrings, whom he addressed as “Chrissie” with that inimitable _flair_ that never forsook him on public occasions, “two lean ham-sandwiches and two tankards of half-and-half with plenty of top.” The reception accorded by Mr. William Jordan, Junior, to these viands, for which the buffet of the Brontë Hotel was justly famous, filled Mr. Dodson with astonishment and Chrissie with consternation not unmingled with protest. “Your fat friend needn’t look as though he’s tasted vitriol,” said the lady in the scarlet blouse, as the boy recoiled with horror at the moment he was saluted by the fumes from the tankard. “That’s the best half-and-half in London, young man, and he who says it is not is a perverter of the truth.” “Is--is it h-hemlock?” gasped the boy, as tragically he replaced the tankard upon the marble slab. With that presence of mind for which he was notorious, Mr. Dodson bent across the counter and whispered something in the ear of the lady in the scarlet blouse, which was not audible to Mr. William Jordan, Junior. To lend colour to his statement, in whatever it might consist, Mr. Dodson tapped his forehead in an impersonal and mystical manner. “Get him a small milk, Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson with a most engaging air, which had long been the despair and the envy of his wide circle of acquaintance. When this beverage had been produced and the lady in the scarlet blouse had been thanked profusely, but not altogether mollified by the recipient of this signal act of condescension, both she and Mr. Dodson gazed at him curiously while he looked nervously at the plate containing the ham-sandwich which had been set before him. “If you’d like a bit of bread-and-butter, you can have it you know,” said the lady in the scarlet blouse. “Oh, t-thank you, t-thank you, if you will have the g-g-great kindness,” said the boy. He was relieved beyond expression; yet his embarrassment at being addressed publicly by a mysterious kind of creature of whom his friends, the ancient authors, had invariably formed such remarkable opinions, caused a deep tawny blush to overspread his pale and hollow cheeks. “You may well look so fat,” said the lady in the scarlet blouse, with her indignation melting. She felt that his agitation was a frank testimonial to the impact of her own overpowering personality.