“Yes, my lord, and I wish you every happiness in him,” Rogers said.
“I am afraid my wife will be disappointed,” said Lord Frogmore, “she’s so fond of my little nephew, little Duke. She would rather it had been a girl for that. Poor little Duke! Now he’s quite out of it, the little shaver.” And Lord Frogmore laughed. He was sorry for Duke, or at least would have been had there been room in him for anything but joy. “Did I ever tell you, Rogers, what that little fellow said the first time I went to Greenpark, eh? He said, ‘When you’re dead papa will be Lord Frogmore, and when papa’s dead, me.’ Poor little shaver! He was too cocksure,” said Lord Frogmore again with a triumphant laugh.
“It’ll make a deal of difference to him, my lord.”
“Yes, it’ll make a deal of difference. But they couldn’t expect me to consider them before myself,” said Lord Frogmore. “A man likes to have an heir of his own, Rogers—a son of his own to come after him.”
“Yes, he do, my lord,” Rogers said.
“A man loves to have an heir of his own,” repeated the old lord with a beaming face—“his own flesh and blood—his own son to sit in his place. That’s what a man prefers before everything, Rogers.”
“He do, my lord,” Rogers once more replied.
“You put up with it when you can’t help it; but a son of your own to come after you, Rogers!”
“Yes, my lord—if you’ll drink this while it is hot, and get into bed.”
“You’re a sad martinet, Rogers. I don’t believe you mind a bit, or care, whether it was a girl or a boy. I’ll have no beef tea. I’ll have some champagne to drink to the heir.”