All this love and this vicarious ambition were now mortified daily. Some fathers could do wonders for a brilliant boy, and with him; they expect him, and a dull boy appears; that is a bitter pill; but this was worse. Reginald was a sharp boy; he could do anything; fasten him to a book for twenty minutes, he would learn as much as most boys in an hour; but there was no keeping him to it, unless you strapped him or nailed him, for he had the will of a mule, and the suppleness of an eel to carry out his will. And then his tastes--low as his features were refined; he was a sort of moral dung-fork; picked up all the slang of the stable and scattered it in the dining-room and drawing-room; and once or twice he stole out of his comfortable room at night, and slept in a gypsy's tent with his arm round a gypsy boy, unsullied from his cradle by soap. At last Sir Charles could no longer reply to his wife at night as he had done for this ten years past. He was obliged to confess that there was one cloud upon his happiness. “Dear Reginald grieves me, and makes me dread the future; for if the child is father to the man, there is a bitter disappointment in store for us. He is like no other boy; he is like no human creature I ever saw. At his age, and long after, I was a fool; I was a fool till I knew you; but surely I was a gentleman. I cannot see myself again--in my first-born.” CHAPTER XXXVII. LADY BASSETT was paralyzed for a minute or two by this speech. At last she replied by asking a question--rather a curious one. “Who nursed you, Charles?” “What, when I was a baby? How can I tell? Yes, by-the-by, it was my mother nursed me--so I was told.” “And your mother was a Le Compton. This poor boy was nursed by a servant. Oh, she has some good qualities, and is certainly devoted to us--to this day her face brightens at sight of me--but she is essentially vulgar; and do you remember, Charles, I wished to wean him early; but I was overruled, and the poor child drew his nature from that woman for nearly eighteen months; it is a thing unheard of nowadays.” “Well, but surely it is from our parents we draw our nature.” “No; I think it is from our nurses. If Compton or Alec ever turn out like Reginald, blame nobody but their nurse, and that is Me.” Sir Charles smiled faintly at this piece of feminine logic, and asked her what he should do. She said she was quite unable to advise. Mr. Rolfe was coming to see them soon; perhaps he might be able to suggest something. 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.