Mr. Dodson gave a curt nod to embrace them both, and looked them down with a cold, straight glance. “Cheek,” said Mr. Dodson, in a half-audible aside to Mr. William Jordan, Junior. “Infernal cheek!” “Who’s Jimmy touting around with this morning?” said the first of these gentlemen to the lady in the scarlet blouse. “A gilt mug,” said that superb creature coldly from behind her dahlia. “Thought as much,” said the first gentleman with a quizzical look at his companion. “Between you and me and the mustard pot, Chrissie, it’s my opinion Jimmy Dodson gets a bigger snob every day.” “Jimmy’s all right,” said the lady. “If either of _you_ had got half _his_ style, you’d do.” “Yes, I suppose we should.” Each of the young men gave a sigh that was so imperfectly repressed, that it lent poignant expression to the unattainable. XVIII In the process of taking Mr. William Jordan, Junior, back to his governess, Mr. James Dodson, in his capacity of an accomplished man of the world of many years’ standing, delivered himself at large upon certain first principles, which he considered to be indispensable to all who sought to graduate in the severe school of worldly experience. “I’ll tell you what it is, my son,” he said, taking the bewildered boy by the arm, for an additional tankard of “half-and-half with plenty of top” had provoked in Mr. Dodson an unwonted expansion, “I’ll tell you what it is, my son, there is something wrong with you.” The boy did not reply to this indictment. He felt that there was. “There’s something missing,” said Mr. Dodson impressively. The silence of William Jordan, Junior, continued to corroborate Mr. Dodson. “As I have already said, my son,” said Mr. Dodson, “you are just about fivepence halfpenny to the shilling, not more, not a farthing more. I cast no aspersions, mind, upon the maiden aunt who undertook your up-bringing. I don’t doubt that she is a good and worthy, and nice-minded old woman, but I blame her for one thing, my son, for one thing I am forced to blame her.” Who the old woman was that Mr. Dodson was forced to blame and what he blamed her for, William Jordan, Junior, had not the courage to inquire. “She might at least,” Mr. Dodson’s tone was one of judicial sadness, “have seen that you had all your buttons on when she turned you out into the world.” “M-my b-buttons, s-sir!” stammered William Jordan, Junior, fingering his jacket nervously. “Yes, my son, your buttons.” Mr. Dodson’s amiability verged upon the formidable. “When a cove starts out in life now-a-days, he’s got to have all his buttons on, and _he’s got to have ’em stitched on with wire_. Understand?” William Jordan, Junior, did not understand at all, but the courage was not his to say so.