Now Mr. Bassett was strong on his pins and in his will, and his nurse-maid, after all, was young; so he used to take his walks nearly every day to Mrs. Meyrick's: she petted him enough, and spoiled him in every way, while the nurse-maid was flirting with the farm-servants out of sight. Sir Charles Bassett was devoted to the boy, and used always to have him to his study in the morning, and to the drawing-room after dinner, when the party was small, and that happened much oftener now than heretofore; but at other hours he did not look after him, being a business man, and considering him at that age to be under his mother's care. One day the only guest was Mr. Rolfe; he was staying in the house for three days, upon a condition suggested by himself--viz., that he might enjoy his friends' society in peace and comfort, and not be set to roll the stone of conversation up some young lady's back, and obtain monosyllables in reply, faintly lisped amid a clatter of fourteen knives and forks. As he would not leave his writing-table on any milder terms, they took him on these. After dinner in came Mr. Bassett, erect, and a proud nurse with little Compton, just able to hold his nurse's gown and toddle. 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.” “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?”