“That she doesn’t, father,” cried the boy. “Why, she’s the youngest-looking and most beautiful lady at court.”
“So she is, my boy—so she is. Heaven bless her!”
“And as for you, father, you talk about looking old, and about me growing big and manly; I shall never grow into such a fine, handsome officer as you.”
“Why, you wicked, parasitical, young court flatterer!” cried Sir Robert; “you’re getting spoiled and sycophantish already.”
“I’m not, father!” cried the boy, flushing; “it’s quite true, every word of it. Everybody says what a noble-looking couple you are.”
“Do they, my boy?” said the father more gently, and there was a trace of emotion in his tone. “But there’s not much couple in it, living apart like this. Ah, well, we have our duty to do, and mine is cut out for me. But never mind the looks, Frank, my boy, and the gay uniform; it’s the man I want you to grow into. But all the same, sir, nature is nature. Look there.”
“What, at grandfather’s portrait?”
“Yes, boy. You will not need to have yours painted, and I have not had mine taken for the same reason. Is it like me?”
“Yes, father. If you were dressed the same, it would be exactly like you.”
“In twenty years’ time it will do for you.”