"Yuss. So does the may and the syringa and the new-mown hay and the seaweed. Never smelt any of 'em?"
"No," sighed Paul, sensuously conscious of new and vague horizons. "I once smelled summat sweet," he said dreamily. "It wur a lady."
"D'ye mean a woman?"
"No. A lady. Like what yo' read of."
"I've heard as they do smell good; like violets—some on 'em," the philosopher remarked.
Drawn magnetically to this spiritual brother, Paul said almost without volition, "She said I were the son of a prince."
"Son of a WOT?" cried Barney Bill, sitting up with a jerk that shook a volume or two onto the ground.
Paul repeated the startling word.
"Lor' lumme!" exclaimed the other, "don't yer know who yer father was?"
Paul told of his disastrous attempts to pierce the mystery of his birth.