“A gilt mug,” said Chrissie in the matter-of-fact tone that never forsook her.
“Oh, oh!” said Miss Hermione Leigh, as if sudden light had suffused her robust intelligence; “that explains it.” She turned an arch glance upon Mr. William Jordan. “Not going to run away, cocky, are you?” said the divinity. “Ought to be room for you and me on the same settee.”
She patted the sofa on which she sat with a white-gloved paw.
Mr. Jordan felt his ears to be burning. A fiery haze was floating before his eyes. He was trembling in every limb. With a supreme effort he managed to take a seat on the sofa, and as close to the goddess as he dare.
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.