Sir Charles said he would consult him; but he was clear on one thing—the boy must be sent from Huntercombe, and so separated from all his present acquaintances.
Mr. Rolfe came, and the distressed father opened his heart to him in strict confidence respecting Reginald.
Rolfe listened and sympathized, and knit his brow, and asked time to consider what he had heard, and also to study the boy for himself.
He angled for him next day accordingly. A little table was taken out on the lawn, and presently Mr. Rolfe issued forth in a uniform suit of dark blue flannel and a sombrero hat, and set to work writing a novel in the sun.
Reginald in due course descried this figure, and it smacked so of that Bohemia to which his own soul belonged that he was attracted thereby, but made his approaches stealthily, like a little cat.
Presently a fiddle went off behind a tree, so close that the novelist leaped out of his seat with an eldrich screech; for he had long ago forgotten all about Mr. Reginald, and, when he got heated in this kind of composition, any sudden sound seemed to his tense nerves and boiling brain about ten times as loud as it really was.
Having relieved himself with a yell, he sat down with the mien of a martyr expecting tortures; but he was most agreeably disappointed; the little monster played an English melody, and played it in tune. This done, he whistled a quick tune, and played a slow second to it in perfect harmony; this done, he whistled the second part and played the quick treble—a very simple feat, but still ingenious for a boy, and new to his hearer.
“Bravo! bravo!” cried Rolfe, with all his heart,
Mr. Reginald emerged, radiant with vanity. “You are like me, Mr. Writer,” said he; “you don't like to be cooped up in-doors.”
“I wish I could play the fiddle like you, my fine fellow.”