The carriage drew up at the foot of a large flight of marble steps, which led to a terrace covered by a long veranda. Under, the shade of this two gentlemen sat at breakfast, both unknown to me. “Whom have we here?” cried the elder, a fat, middle-aged man of coarse features and stern expression,--“whom have we here?” The younger--conspicuous by a dressing-gown and cap that glittered with gold embroidery--looked lazily over the top of his newspaper, and said, “That boy of Norcott's, I take it; he was to arrive to-day.” This was the first time I heard an expression that my ears were soon to be well familiar to, and I cannot tell how bitterly the words insulted me. “Who were they,” I asked myself, “who, under my father's roof, could dare so to call me! and why was I not styled Sir Roger Norcott's son, and not thus disparagingly, 'that boy of Norcott's'?” I walked slowly up the steps among these men as defiantly as though there was a declared enmity between us, and was proceeding straight towards the door, when the elder called out, “Holloa, youngster, come here and report yourself! You 've just come, have n't you?” “I have just come,” said I, slowly; “but when I report myself it shall be to my father, Sir Roger Norcott.” “You got that, Hotham, and I must say you deserved it too,” said the younger in a low tone, which my quick hearing, however, caught. “Will you have some breakfast with us?” said the elder, with a faint laugh, as though he enjoyed the encounter. “No, I thank you, sir,” said I, stiffly, and passed on into the house. “Master Digby,” said a smart little man in black, who for a moment or two puzzled me whether he was a guest or a servant, “may I show you to your room, sir? Sir Roger is not up; he seldom rings for his bath before one o'clock; but he said he would have it earlier to-day.” “And what is your name, pray?” “Nixon, sir. Mr. Nixon, Sir Roger is pleased to call me for distinction' sake; the lower servants require it.” “Tell me then, Mr. Nixon, who are the two gentlemen I saw at breakfast outside?” “The stoutish gentleman, sir, is Captain Hotham, of the Royal Navy; the other, with the Turkish pipe, is Mr. Cleremont, Secretary to the Legation here. Great friends of Sir Roger's, sir. Dine here three or four times a week, and have their rooms always kept for them.” The appearance of my room, into which Nixon now ushered me, went far to restore me to a condition of satisfaction. It was the most perfect little bedroom it is possible to imagine, and Nixon never wearied in doing the honors of displaying it.