“You mean Briseis?”
“Yes, my son, I mean Briseis—or Mother Brownrigg—or Lady Jane Grey. Hullo, here’s Hermione.”
As the divinity approached, with her straw hat tilted with serene indifference over her eyes, and her skirt sweeping the dust of the narrow alley which led to the stage-door, William Jordan clutched the arm of his mentor fiercely. He felt his excitement to be overcoming him.
“Hullo, Jimmy,” said the divinity, with the particular wave of the hand that then happened to be fashionable.
“Is the Bart about?” inquired Mr. Dodson.
“No,” said the divinity. “He has gone to Cowes with his ma.”
“Well, I can’t spring more than stout and oysters,” said Mr. Dodson. “Don’t get many winners these times. Are you taking any?”
“Don’t mind,” said the goddess, with easy condescension.
“Come on then, round the corner.”
“Why,” said the goddess, “if that ain’t our poet, our own live little, tame little pet poet. What will mother say that her boy has been out so late? Been to a naughty place, too.”