“Why, it’s Vuillamy, the furniture man,” cried the Prince.  “What, am I to be dunned in my own private room?  Where’s Mellish?  Where’s Townshend?  What the deuce is Tom Tring doing?”

“I wouldn’t have intruded, your Royal Highness, but I must have the money—­or even a thousand on account would do.”

“Must have it, must you, Vuillamy?  That’s a fine word to use.  I pay my debts in my own time, and I’m not to be bullied.  Turn him out, footman!  Take him away!”

“If I don’t get it by Monday, I shall be in your papa’s Bench,” wailed the little man, and as the footman led him out we could hear him, amidst shouts of laughter, still protesting that he would wind up in “papa’s Bench.”

“That’s the very place for a furniture man,” said the man with the red nose.

“It should be the longest bench in the world, Sherry,” answered the Prince, “for a good many of his subjects will want seats on it.  Very glad to see you back, Tregellis, but you must really be more careful what you bring in upon your skirts.  It was only yesterday that we had an infernal Dutchman here howling about some arrears of interest and the deuce knows what.  ‘My good fellow,’ said I, ’as long as the Commons starve me, I have to starve you,’ and so the matter ended.”

“I think, sir, that the Commons would respond now if the matter were fairly put before them by Charlie Fox or myself,” said Sheridan.

The Prince burst out against the Commons with an energy of hatred that one would scarce expect from that chubby, good-humoured face.

“Why, curse them!” he cried.  “After all their preaching and throwing my father’s model life, as they called it, in my teeth, they had to pay his debts to the tune of nearly a million, whilst I can’t get a hundred thousand out of them.  And look at all they’ve done for my brothers!  York is Commander-in-Chief.  Clarence is Admiral.  What am I?  Colonel of a damned dragoon regiment under the orders of my own younger brother.  It’s my mother that’s at the bottom of it all.  She always tried to hold me back.  But what’s this you’ve brought, Tregellis, eh?”

My uncle put his hand on my sleeve and led me forward.

“This is my sister’s son, sir; Rodney Stone by name,” said he.  “He is coming with me to London, and I thought it right to begin by presenting him to your Royal Highness.”

“Quite right!  Quite right!” said the Prince, with a good-natured smile, patting me in a friendly way upon the shoulder.  “Is your mother living?”

“Yes, sir,” said I.

“If you are a good son to her you will never go wrong.  And, mark my words, Mr. Rodney Stone, you should honour the King, love your country, and uphold the glorious British Constitution.”

When I thought of the energy with which he had just been cursing the House of Commons, I could scarce keep from smiling, and I saw Sheridan put his hand up to his lips.