of dark-blue silken hanging, caught the wandering eye.  What this lacked of luxury and mystery was made up—­almost to the Medmenham point in the eyes of the city—­by the gleam of girandoles, and the glow, rather felt than seen, of Titian-copies in Florence frames.  Sir George, borne along in his chair, peered up at this well-known window—­well-known, since in the Oxford of 1767 a man’s rooms were furnished if he had tables and chairs, store of beef and October, an apple-pie and Common Room port—­and seeing the casement brilliantly lighted, smiled a trifle contemptuously.

‘The Reverend Frederick is not much changed,’ he muttered.  ’Lord, what a beast it was!  And how we hazed him!  Ah!  At home, is he?’—­this to the servant, as the man lifted the head of the chair.  ‘Yes, I will go up.’

To tell the truth, the Reverend Frederick Thomasson had so keen a scent for Gold Tufts or aught akin to them, that it would have been strange if the instinct had not kept him at home; as a magnet, though unseen, attracts the needle.  The same prepossession brought him, as soon as he heard of his visitor’s approach, hurrying to the head of the stairs; where, if he had had his way, he would have clasped the baronet in his arms, slobbered over him, after the mode of Paris—­for that was a trick of his—­and perhaps even wept on his shoulder.  But Soane, who knew his ways, coolly defeated the manoeuvre by fending him off with his cane; and the Reverend Frederick was reduced to raising his eyes and hands to heaven in token of the joy which filled him at the sight of his old pupil.

‘Lord!  Sir George, I am inexpressibly happy!’ he cried.  ’My dear sir, my very dear sir, welcome to my poor rooms!  This is joy indeed!  Gaudeamus!  Gaudeamus!  To see you once more, fresh from the groves of Arthur’s and the scenes of your triumphs!  Pardon me, my dear sir, I must and will shake you by the hand again!’ And succeeding at last in seizing Sir George’s hand, he fondled and patted it in both of his—­which were fat and white—­the while with every mark of emotion he led him into the room.

‘Gad!’ said Sir George, standing and looking round.  ’And where is she, Tommy?’

‘That old name!  What a pleasure it is to hear it!’ cried the tutor, affecting to touch his eyes with the corner of a dainty handkerchief; as if the gratification he mentioned were too much for his feelings.

‘But, seriously, Tommy, where is she?’ Soane persisted, still looking round with a grin.

’My dear Sir George!  My honoured friend!  But you would always have your joke.’

‘And, plainly, Tommy, is all this frippery yours?’

‘Tut, tut!’ Mr. Thomasson remonstrated.  ’And no man with a finer taste.  I have heard Mr. Walpole say that with a little training no man would excel Sir George Soane as a connoisseur.  An exquisite eye!  A nice discrimination!  A—­’

‘Now, Tommy, to how many people have you said that?’ Sir George retorted, dropping into a chair, and coolly staring about him.  ’But, there, have done, and tell me about yourself.  Who is the last sprig of nobility you have been training in the way it should grow?’