"Your lordship will permit me to mention a little incident on the Roman road by Sir Godfrey Fanshawe’s park, when——" "Stay, I remember now. You are the lad they called the young parson, eh? I have a poor head for names. When my man spoke of Winton St. Mary I supposed you might be a messenger from the gentleman who entertained us there." Now that Harry was actually face to face with the Lord Treasurer, he felt some diffidence in opening the subject of his visit. My lord, in spite of his deshabille, seemed far less approachable than he had been on the old Roman road. Then he was the country sportsman; now he was the chief minister of the Queen. "Your shouting friend with the scriptural name—how is he?" he asked in a somewhat more cordial tone. "He is well, my lord; he is with me in London." "And your father: has he won his case against the squire? I heard something of him at Sir Godfrey Fanshawe’s, I think." "My father is dead, my lord." "Indeed! Pray accept my condolences. And now, tell me what brings you here." "Your lordship may remember, after the scene with the highwaymen——" "Yes, yes; you did me a service, you and your man; what then?" "It was but a slight service, my lord; I do not presume on it; but you were so good as to say that if, at some future time, I should find myself in need of assistance, I was to come to your lordship." "Why, I did speak of a country parsonage, I believe. But you,"—he smiled—"why, I really may not venture to set you up in a cure of souls. You have to take your degrees yet." "That is impossible, my lord. My father impoverished himself in his feuds with Mr. Berkeley; when his affairs were settled I found myself possessed of but a poor twenty guineas. I have given up all thought of going to Oxford; I must seek a livelihood." "H’m!" Lord Godolphin looked him up and down, as though estimating his chances of making his way in the world. "You wear a sword," he said. "Rochester—you are no connection of the earl’s?—no, of course not, he is a Wilmot. Where do you spring from?" "My grandfather was a soldier, my lord; I have heard that he died young, but my father seldom spoke of these matters; we have no relatives." "H’m! I bethink me now, you yourself have an itch for martial life. All boys have, I suppose. Young Lord Churchill was cut to the heart a few months ago because my lady Marlborough would not permit him to follow his father to Flanders. Well, to be frank with you, I see no way of helping you. With twenty guineas you can no more buy a commission than you can enter yourself at a college. To enlist as a common soldier would be a last resource to one of your breeding. There are too many young scions of good stocks for the lesser places at court to go round among them. Yet I would fain do something for you."