'Why, who'd ever believe it?' he cried, all agog. 'This man Plantagenet, who's come up to see his son--the Prince of the Blood--is a decayed writer, a man of letters of the Alaric Watts and Leigh Hunt period, not unheard of in his day as an inflated essayist. I know a lot of his stuff by heart--Hazlitt-and-water sort of style; De Quincey gone mad, with a touch of Bulwer. Learnt it when I was a boy, and we lived at Constantinople. He's the man who used to gush under the name of Barry Neville!' 'How did you find it out?' Faussett inquired, all eagerness. 'Why, I happened to turn out a “Dictionary of Pseudonyms” at the Union just now, in search of somebody else; and there the name Plantagenet caught my eye by chance. So of course I read, and, looking closer, I found this fact about the old man and his origin. It's extremely interesting. So, to make quite sure, I boarded Plantagenet five minutes ago with the point-blank question. “Hullo, Prince,” said I, “I see your father's Barry Neville, the writer.” He coloured up to his eyes, as he does--it's a charming girlish trick of his; but he admitted the impeachment. There! he's crossing the quad now. I wonder what the dickens he's done with his governor!' 'I'll run up to his rooms and see,' Faussett answered, laughing. 'He keeps the old fellow pretty close--in cotton wool, so to speak. Won't trust him out alone, and sets Gillespie to watch him. But an Exeter man tells me he's seen the same figure down at a place called Chiddingwick, where he lives, in Surrey; and according to him, he's a rare old buffer. I'll go and make his acquaintance, now his R'yal Highness has gone off unattended to lecture; we'll have some sport out of him.' And he disappeared, brimming over, up the steps of the New Buildings. All that afternoon, in fact, Richard noticed for himself that some change had come over his father's spirit. Mr. Plantagenet was more silent, and yet even more grandiose and regal than ever. He hadn't been drinking, thank Heaven--not quite so bad as that, for Dick knew only too well the signs of drink in his father's face and his father's actions; but he had altered in demeanour, somehow, and was puffed up with personal dignity even more markedly than usual. He sat in, and talked a great deal about the grand days of his youth, and he dwelt so much upon the past glories of Lady Postlethwaite's _salon_ and the people he used to meet there that Dick began to wonder what on earth it portended. 'You'll come round to my rooms, father, after Hall?' he asked at last, as Mr. Plantagenet rose to leave just before evening chapel. 'Gillespie'll be here, and one or two other fellows.' Mr. Plantagenet smiled dubiously. 'No, no, my boy,' he answered in his lightest and airiest manner. 'You must excuse me. This evening, you must really excuse me. To tell you the truth, Richard'--with profound importance--'I have an engagement elsewhere.'