"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.

"A frying-pan? Did she now? That's a mother for yer."

Paul disowned her. He disowned her with reprehensible emphasis.

Barney Bill pulled reflectively at his pipe. Then he laid a bony
hand on the boy's shoulder. "Who do you think yer mother was?" he
asked gravely. "A princess?"

"Ay, why not?" said Paul.