say to meeting me here! He 's rather corky at the best of times; what will he be now? He 'll see directly that I 'm on my road to Fanny, whom he hates like the bad; and that won't improve the old boy's temper. He expects one to stick so particularly close to College, that he 'll be no end riled at seeing his hopeful play truant in this fashion. I must deny myself to the old boy, and stick out that I 'm somebody else. There 's nothing like impudence! and I flatter myself that I can be as cool as a Covent-garden full of cucumbers. Now for it!"
By this time "the Old Boy" had advanced with quickened steps and eyes of wonder, and had pulled himself up full in the face of his unfilial son. The Old Boy had a highly-coloured, port-and-claret countenance, the radiant hues of which were shown off to the greatest advantage by the snowy colour (that is to say, if white is a colour) of his white neck-handkerchief, which appeared to have been wrapped round his neck a countless number of times, after an antique fashion. The Old Boy, being of a puffy, apoplectic habit of body, was not accustomed to ascend gradients, however easy, without a certain amount of stertorous breathing, that, for a time, proved a slight impediment to the freedom of conversation; and thus, when he encountered his son, he could only gasp, "Why—why! Percie!" and was then compelled to stop short, and to lay his hand upon his son's arm to arrest his farther progress.
Mr. Percival Wylde paused, and slightly lifted his eyebrows with an air of well-bred surprise.
"Why, Percie!" at length said Mr. Wylde, senior, as he regained his breath, without losing his astonishment; "why, Percie! what in the name of fortune brings you here?"
