You see, Aunt Hobson, she's very kind, you know, and all that, but I don't think she's what you call comme il faut.«

»Why, how are you to judge?« asks the father, amused at the lad's candid prattle, »and where does the difference lie?«

»I can't tell you what it is, or how it is,« the boy answered, »only one can't help seeing the difference. It isn't rank and that; only somehow there are some men gentlemen and some not, and some women ladies and some not. There's Jones now, the Fifth Form master, every man sees he's a gentleman, though he wears ever so old clothes; and there's Mr. Brown, who oils his hair, and wears rings, and white chokers – my eyes! such white chokers! – and yet we call him the handsome snob! And so about Aunt Maria: she's very handsome, and she's very finely dressed, only somehow she's not – she's not the ticket, you see.«

»Oh, she's not the ticket,« says the Colonel, much amused.

»Well, what I mean is – but never mind,« says the boy; »I can't tell you what I mean. I don't like to make fun of her, you know, for after all she is very kind to me; but Aunt Ann is different, and it seems as if what she says is more natural; and though she has funny ways of her own too, yet somehow she looks grander,« – and here the lad laughed again. »And do you know, I often think that as good a lady as Aunt Ann herself is old Aunt Honeyman at Brighton – that is, in all essentials, you know. For she is not proud, and she is not vain, and she never says an unkind word behind anybody's back, and she does a deal of kindness to the poor without appearing to crow over them, you know; and she is not a bit ashamed of letting lodgings, or being poor herself, as sometimes I think some of our family –«

»I thought we were going to speak no ill of them,« says the Colonel, smiling.

»Well, it only slipped out unawares,« says Clive, laughing; »but at Newcome, when they go on about the Newcomes, and that great ass, Barnes Newcome, gives himself his airs, it makes me die of laughing. That time I went down to Newcome I went to see old Aunt Sarah, and she told me everything, and showed me the room where my grandfather – you know; and do you know I was a little hurt at first, for I thought we were swells till then. And when I came back to school, where perhaps I had been giving myself airs, and bragging about Newcome, why you know I thought it was right to tell the fellows.«

»That's a man,« said the Colonel, with delight; though had he said, »That's a boy,« he had spoken more correctly. Indeed, how many men do we know in the world without caring to know who their fathers were? and how many more who wisely do not care to tell us? »That's a man,« cries the Colonel; »never be ashamed of your father, Clive.«

»Ashamed of my father!« says Clive, looking up to him, and walking on as proud as a peacock. »I say,« the lad resumed, after a pause –

»Say what you say,« said the father.

»Is that all true what's in the Peerage – in the Baronetage, about Uncle Newcome and Newcome: about the Newcome who was burned at Smithfield; about the one that was at the battle of Bosworth; and the old, old Newcome who was bar – that is, who was surgeon to Edward the Confessor, and was killed at Hastings? I am afraid it isn't; and yet I should like it to be true.«

»I think every man would like to come of an ancient and honourable race,« said the Colonel, in his honest way. »As you like your father to be an honourable man, why not your grandfather, and his ancestors before him? But if we can't inherit a good name, at least we can do our best to leave one, my boy; and that is an ambition which, please God, you and I will both hold by.«

With this simple talk the old and young gentlemen beguiled their way, until they came into the western quarter of the town, where the junior member of the firm of Newcome Brothers had his house – a handsome and roomy mansion in Bryanston Square. Colonel Newcome was bent on paying a visit to his sister-in-law; and as he knocked at the door, where the pair were kept waiting some little time, he could remark through the open windows of the dining-room that a great table was laid and every preparation made for a feast.

»My brother said he was engaged to dinner to-day,« said the Colonel. »Does Mrs. Newcome give parties when he is away?«

»She invites all the company,« answered Clive. »My uncle never asks any one without aunt's leave.«

The Colonel's countenance fell. »He has a great dinner, and does not ask his own brother!« Newcome thought. »Why, if he had come to me in India with all his family, he might have stayed for a year, and I should have been offended if he had gone elsewhere.«

A hot menial, in a red waistcoat, came and opened the door, and without waiting for preparatory queries, said, »Not at home.«

»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 pastry-cook'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. There 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.