“I can't join you, for I 've to go into town, and get my young bear trimmed, and his nails cut. 'Make him presentable,' Norcott said, and I 've had easier tasks to do.” So saying, Eccles moved off in one direction, while Hotham and Cleremont strolled away in another; and I was left to my own reflections, which were not few. CHAPTER V. A FIRST DINNER-PARTY I was made “presentable” in due time, and on the fifth day after my arrival made my appearance at the dinner-table. “Sit there, sir,” said my father, “opposite me.” And I was not sorry to perceive that an enormous vase with flowers effectually screened me from his sight. The post of honor thus accorded me was a sufficient intimation to my father's guests how he intended me to be treated by them; and as they were without an exception all hangers-on and dependants,--men who dined badly or not at all when uninvited to his table,--they were marvellously quick in understanding that I was to be accepted as his heir, and, after himself, the person of most consideration there. Besides the three individuals I have already mentioned, our party included two foreigners,--Baron Steinmetz, an aide-de-camp of the King, and an Italian duke, San Giovanni. The Duke sat on my father's right, the Baron on mine. The conversation during dinner was in French, which I followed imperfectly, and was considerably relieved on discovering that the German spoke French with difficulty, and blundered over his genders as hopelessly as I should have done had I attempted to talk. “Ach Gott,” muttered he to himself in German, “when people were seeking for a common language, why did n't they take one that all humanity could pronounce?” “So meine ich auch, Herr Baron,” cried I; “I quite agree with you.” He turned towards me with a look of-positive affection, on seeing I knew German, and we both began to talk together at once with freedom. “What's the boy saying?” cried my father, as he caught the sounds of some glib speech of mine. “Don't let him bore you with his bad French, Steinmetz.” “He is charming me with his admirable German,” said the Baron. “I can't tell when I have met a more agreeable companion.” This was, of course, a double flattery, for my German was very bad, and my knowledge on any subject no better; but the fact did not diminish the delight the praise afforded me. “Do you know German, Digby?” asked my father. “A little,--a very little, sir.” “The fellow would say he knew Sanscrit if you asked him,” whispered Hotham to Eccles; but my sharp ears overheard him. “Come, that's better than I looked for,” said my father. “What do you say, Eccles? Is there stuff there?” “Plenty, Sir Roger; enough and to spare. I count on Digby to do me great credit yet.” “What career do you mean your son to follow?” asked the Italian, while he nodded to me over his wine-glass in most civil recognition.