“That’ll be to-morrow, my lord,” said the man, “and I know her ladyship will never put faith in me again. But at least you’ll take your beef tea.” Lord Frogmore pushed him away, and bade him take the beef-tea himself and coddle himself up as he had done his master so long. As for himself, he kept trotting up and downstairs all the night. It was far too late at sixty-nine, after taking such care of himself, to begin this life of emotion and anxiety; and the morning light, when it stole in through all the closed shutters, flouting the candles, and poured down the great staircase, making the lamp in the hall look so foolish, made sad game of the old lord’s rosy face, generally so fresh and smooth. But, happily, ease came with the morning, and the best of news: a boy--and all very quiet, and every prospect that everything would go well. Lord Frogmore was allowed to peep at the top of a small head done up in flannel, and at the mother’s pale face on the pillow, and then he resigned himself to Rogers to be put to bed. But he was now so overflowing with delight that he chattered like an old woman to his faithful servant. “Rogers,” he said, “you’ve heard it’s a boy?” “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.” “Oh, my lord, my lord! You’ll have one of your attacks: and then what will her ladyship say to me?” said the much-troubled Rogers, to whom his old master was generally so obedient.