Goring; I'm Lord Ipswich's son-in-law and I live in his house; so you
see it's all right."

The corollary was not evident; but the mention of the name brought
Mildred back to the ordinary world. So this was George Goring, the
plague of his political party, the fly in the ointment of a respectable
Marquis and his distinguished daughter. She had not fancied him like
this. For one thing, she did not know him to be younger than his wife,
and between the careworn solidity of Lady Augusta and this vivid
restless personality, the five actual years of difference seemed
stretched to ten.

"I'm convinced it's all right, Mr. Goring," she replied, throwing
herself into a chair and smiling at him sparklingly. "It must be all
right. I want my supper so much I should have to accept your invitation
even if you were a burglar."

Goring, whose habit it was to keep moving, laughed as he walked about,
one hand in his trousers pocket.

"Why shouldn't I be a burglar? A burglar, with an assistant disguised as
a footman, sacking the bedrooms of Lord Ipswich's house while the ball
proceeds? There's copy for you! Shall I do it? 'Mr. George Goring's
Celebrated Black Pearls Stolen,' would make a capital head-line. Perhaps
you've heard I'd do anything to keep my name in the newspapers."

"It certainly gets there pretty often," returned Mildred, politely; "and
whenever it's mentioned it has an enlivening effect."

The footman had reappeared and they were unfolding their dinner-napkins,
sitting opposite each other at the little table.

"As how, enlivening?"

"Like a bit of bread dropped into a glass of flat champagne."

"You think my party's like champagne? Why, it couldn't exist for a
moment if it sparkled."

"I was talking of newspapers, not of your party; though there's no doubt
you do enliven that."

"Do I? Like what? No odiously inoffensive comparisons, if you please."

"Well, I have heard people say like--like a blister on the back of the
neck."

Goring laughed. "Thanks. That's better."

"The patient's using language, but he won't really tear it off, because
he knows that would hurt him more, and the blister will do him good in
the end, if he bears with it."

"But there's the blister's side to it, too. It's infernally tiring for a
blister to be sticking on to such a fellow everlastingly. It'll fly off
of itself before long, if he doesn't look out. Hullo! What am I saying?
I suppose you'll have all this out in some confounded