"My name is Rochester, my lord."
"I am aware of that. I do not recall it. Well?"
My lord's tone was cold and uninviting.
"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."