‘The last pupil who honoured me,’ the Reverend Frederick answered, ’as you are so kind as to ask after my poor concerns, Sir George, was my Lord E——­’s son.  We went to Paris, Marseilles, Genoa, Florence; visited the mighty monuments of Rome, and came home by way of Venice, Milan, and Turin.  I treasure the copy of Tintoretto which you see there, and these bronzes, as memorials of my lord’s munificence.  I brought them back with me.’

‘And what did my lord’s son bring back?’ Sir George asked, cruelly.  ’A Midianitish woman?’

‘My honoured friend!’ Mr. Thomasson remonstrated.  ’But your wit was always mordant—­mordant!  Too keen for us poor folk!’

‘D’ye remember the inn at Cologne, Tommy?’ Sir George continued, mischievously reminiscent.  ’And Lord Tony arriving with his charmer?  And you giving up your room to her?  And the trick we played you at Calais, where we passed the little French dancer on you for Madame la Marquise de Personne?’

Mr. Thomasson winced, and a tinge of colour rose in his fat pale face.  ‘Boys, boys!’ he said, with an airy gesture.  ’You had an uncommon fancy even then, Sir George, though you were but a year from school!  Ah, those were charming days!  Great days!’

‘And nights!’ said Sir George, lying back in his chair and looking at the other with eyes half shut, and insolence half veiled.  ’Do you remember the faro bank at Florence, Tommy, and the three hundred livres you lost to that old harridan, Lady Harrington?  Pearls cast before swine you styled them, I remember.’

‘Lord, Sir George!’ Mr. Thomasson cried, vastly horrified.  ’How can you say such a thing?  Your excellent memory plays you false.’

‘It does,’ Soane answered, smiling sardonically.  ’I remember.  It was seed sown for the harvest, you called it—­in your liquor.  And that touches me.  Do you mind the night Fitzhugh made you so prodigiously drunk at Bonn, Tommy?  And we put you in the kneading-trough, and the servants found you and shifted you to the horse-trough?  Gad! you would have died of laughter if you could have seen yourself when we rescued you, lank and dripping, with your wig like a sponge!’

‘It must have been—­uncommonly diverting!’ the Reverend Frederick stammered; and he smiled widely, but with a lack of heart.  This time there could be no doubt of the pinkness that overspread his face.

‘Diverting?  I tell you it would have made old Dartmouth laugh!’ Sir George said, bluntly.

’Ha, ha!  Perhaps it would.  Perhaps it would.  Not that I have the honour of his lordship’s acquaintance.’

‘No?  Well, he would not suit you, Tommy.  I would not seek it.’

The Reverend Frederick looked doubtful, as weighing the possibility of anything that bore the name of lord being alien from him.  From this reflection, however, he was roused by a new sally on Soane’s part.  ’But, crib me! you are very fine to-night, Mr. Thomasson,’ he said, staring about him afresh.  ’Ten o’clock, and you are lighted as for a drum!  What is afoot?’