“It’s my father, John,” said Clive; “my aunt will see Colonel Newcome.” “Missis not at home,” said the man. “Missis is gone in carriage—Not at this door!—Take them things down the area steps, young man!” bawls out the domestic. This latter speech was addressed to a pastrycook’s boy, with a large sugar temple and many conical papers containing delicacies for dessert. “Mind the hice is here in time; or there’ll be a blow-up with your governor,”—and John struggled back, closing the door on the astonished Colonel. “Upon my life, they actually shut the door in our faces,” said the poor gentleman. “The man is very busy, sir. There’s a great dinner. I’m sure my aunt would not refuse you,” Clive interposed. “She is very kind. I suppose it’s different here to what it is in India, here are the children in the square,—those are the girls in blue,—that’s the French governess, the one with the mustachios and the yellow parasol. How d’ye do, Mary? How d’ye do, Fanny? This is my father,—this is your uncle.” “Mesdemoiselles! Je vous défends de parler à qui que ce soit hors du Squar!” screams out the lady of the mustachios; and she strode forward to call back her young charges. The Colonel addressed her in very good French. “I hope you will permit me to make acquaintance with my nieces,” he said, “and with their instructress, of whom my son has given me such a favourable account.” “Hem!” said Mademoiselle Lebrun, remembering the last fight she and Clive had had together, and a portrait of herself (with enormous whiskers) which the young scapegrace had drawn. “Monsieur is very good. But one cannot too early inculcate _retenue_ and decorum to young ladies in a country where demoiselles seem for ever to forget that they are young ladies of condition. I am forced to keep the eyes of lynx upon these young persons, otherwise heaven knows what would come to them. Only yesterday, my back is turned for a moment, I cast my eyes on a book, having but little time for literature, monsieur—for literature, which I adore—when a cry makes itself to hear. I turn myself, and what do I see? Mesdemoiselles, your nieces, playing at criquette, with the Messieurs Smees—sons of Doctor Smees—young galopins, monsieur!” All this was shrieked with immense volubility and many actions of the hand and parasol across the square-railings to the amused Colonel, at whom the little girls peered through the bars. “Well, my dears, I should like to have a game at cricket with you, too,” says the kind gentleman, reaching them each a brown hand. “You, monsieur, c’est different—a man of your age! Salute monsieur, your uncle, mesdemoiselles. You conceive, monsieur, that I also must be cautious when I speak to a man so distinguished in a public squar.” And she cast down her great eyes and hid those radiant orbs from the Colonel.