“But you are not of the vulgar at all, Jimmy; it is I, William Jordan, who have considered myself to be of the kin of heroes, who am the plebeian.”
“Have it as you please, my son,” said the eminent philosopher. “You are altogether beyond me to-night, you are altogether over my head.”
He linked his arm through that of his excited companion.
“Come on, old boy,” he said, “round to the stage-door. We might be able to get a word with Hermione Leigh.”
“Y-you m-mean Hera, the white-armed goddess.”
“Yes, my son, I mean Hera—or Diana—or Joan of Arc—or Jane Cakebread—or Mother Hubbard, or any other bit of skirt.”
“Yes, he is a true Olympian,” muttered the young man, “he is so imperturbable. And I—and I, who would run and shout with the fever in my veins, O pious gods, what misbegotten carrion am I?”
“I never saw the poor chap so absolutely balmy as he is to-night,” said Mr. Dodson, also speaking his thoughts aloud. “The poor cove is not used to a day in the sun.”
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.”