All this time Jack had been standing beside Ruth.  He had heard the stir at the door and had seen Holker join Miss Felicia, and while the talk between the two lasted he had interspersed his talk to Ruth with accounts of the supper, and Garry’s getting the ring, to which was added the boy’s enthusiastic tribute to the architect himself.  “The greatest man I have met yet,” he said in his quick, impulsive way.  “We don’t have any of them down our way.  I never saw one—­nobody ever did.  Here he comes with Mr. Grayson.  I hope you will like him.”

Ruth made a movement as if to start to her feet.  To sit still and look her best and attend to her cups and hot water and tiny wafers was all right for men like Jack, but not with distinguished men like Mr. Morris.

Morris had his hand on her chair before she could move it back.

“No, my dear young lady—­you’ll please keep your seat.  I’ve been watching you from across the room sand you make too pretty a picture as you are.  Tea?—­Not a drop.”

“Oh, but it is so delicious—­and I will give you the very biggest piece of lemon that is left.”

“No—­not a drop; and as to lemon—­that’s rank poison to me.  You should have seen me hobbling around with gout only last week, and all because somebody at a reception, or tea, or some such plaguey affair, made me drink a glass of lemonade.  Give it to this aged old gentleman—­it will keep him awake.  Here, Peter!”

Up to this moment no word had been addressed to Jack, who stood outside the half circle waiting for some sign of recognition from the great man; and a little disappointed when none came.  He did not know that one of the great man’s failings was his forgetting the names even of those of his intimate friends—­such breaks as “Glad to see you—­I remember you very well, and very pleasantly, and now please tell me your name,” being a common occurrence with the great architect—­a failing that everybody pardoned.

Peter noticed the boy’s embarrassment and touched Morris’ arm.

“You remember Mr. Breen, don’t you, Holker?  He was at your supper that night—­and sat next to me.”

Morris whirled quickly and held out his hand, all his graciousness in his manner.

“Yes, certainly.  You took the ring to Minott, of course.  Very glad to meet you again—­and what did you say his name was, Peter?” This in the same tone of voice—­quite as if Jack were miles away.

“Breen—­John Breen,” answered Peter, putting his arm on Jack’s shoulder, to accentuate more clearly his friendship for the boy.

“All the better, Mr. John Breen—­doubly glad to see you, now that I know your name.  I’ll try not to forget it next time.  Breen!  Breen!  Peter, where have I heard that name before?  Breen—­where the devil have I—­Oh, yes—­I’ve got it now.  Quite a common name, isn’t it?”

Jack assured him with a laugh that it was; there were more than a hundred in the city directory.  He wasn’t offended at Morris forgetting his name, and wanted him to see it.