Bassett, and even of Master
Compton, who pointed and crowed from his mother's lap, he got up on his
chair, and put on a pair of spectacles to look.
"Eureka!" said he; "behold that dish by Lady Bassett; those are
_marrons glaces;_ fetch them here, and let us go in for a fit of the
gout at once."
"Gout! what's that?" inquired Mr. Bassett.
"Don't ask me."
"You don't know.
"Not know! What, didn't I tell you I was Rolfe the writer? Writers know
everything. That is what makes them so modest."
Mr. Bassett was now unnaturally silent for five minutes, munching
chestnuts; this enabled his guests to converse; but as soon as he had
cleared his plate, he cut right across the conversation, with that
savage contempt for all topics but his own which characterizes
gentlemen of his age, and says he to Rolfe, "You know everything? Then
what's a parson's brat?"
"Well, that's the one thing I don't know," said Rolfe; "but a brat I
take to be a boy who interrupts ladies and gentlemen with nonsense when
they are talking sense."
"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Rolfe," said Lady Bassett. "That
remark was very much needed."
Then she called Reginald to her, and lectured him, _sotto voce,_ to the
same tune.
"You old bachelors are rather hard," said Sir Charles, not very well
pleased.
Pages:
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414