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. 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.”