, that he might
enjoy his friends' society in peace and comfort, and not be set to roll
the stone of conversation up some young lady's back, and obtain
monosyllables in reply, faintly lisped amid a clatter of fourteen
knives and forks. As he would not leave his writing-table on any milder
terms, they took him on these.
After dinner in came Mr. Bassett, erect, and a proud nurse with little
Compton, just able to hold his nurse's gown and toddle.
Rolfe did not care for small children; he just glanced at the angelic,
fair-haired infant, but his admiring gaze rested on the elder boy.
"Why, what is here--an Oriental prince?"
The boy ran to him directly. "Who are you?"
"Rolfe the writer. Who are you--the Gipsy King?"
"No; but I am very fond of gypsies. I'm _Mister_ Bassett; and when papa
dies I shall be Sir Charles Bassett."
Sir Charles laughed at this with paternal fatuity, especially as the
boy's name happened to be Reginald Francis, after his grandfather.
Rolfe smiled satirically, for these little speeches from children did
much to reconcile him to his lot.
"Meantime," said he, "let us feed off him; for it may be forty years
before we can dance over his grave. First let us see what is the
unwholesomest thing on the table."
He rose, and to the infinite delight of Mr.
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