By the time the feasting and toasting had been conducted to an issue that was more or less happy—in spite of the pall that still hovered over the assembly—and after the ladies had gone up-stairs, and after Mr. Jordan had been exhorted in vain by each of the gentlemen who still lingered around the board to “try a weed”—an invitation which he declined in such alarmed accents as to cause them all to become hilariously merry—the bewildered and feverishly excited young man, without knowing how he came to be there, found himself standing again in the drawing-room in the presence of the goddess.
In the process of time the fact invaded his mind that his place on the settee by the side of the divinity was now in the occupation of another. That other was Mr. Percival Davis.
“He may be very clever,” Mr. Jordan overheard the penetrating accent of the goddess, “but I don’t think much of his conversation. Do you?”
“I call it rotten,” said Mr. Percival Davis, as he transfixed the young man with a smile that was full of meaning. “I suppose his brain is so subtle that when he says something it is just the same as though he had said nothing at all.”
“Must be,” said Miss Hermione Leigh.
Mr. Davis and the goddess laughed so loudly and so directly at Mr. William Jordan that he gave a little gasp of dismay and yielded a step in dire confusion.
“Run away and play,” said Mr. Davis.
“Like a good boy,” said the goddess.
“You are sure you got permission from mother to be out so late?” Chrissie inquired languidly from the head of the sofa.
While Mr. Jordan continued to stand in this irresolution, and in his distress at finding himself publicly mocked by others, not knowing which way to turn or what to do, he became aware that across the room, which was enveloped in a kind of red haze, the elderly and angular old lady with the glasses, the severe mien, the austere black dress, and the loud, harsh voice, appeared to be in the act of beckoning to him.