o be looking majestically out of
window, was pleased to say that he thought Newcome's governor was a fine
manly-looking fellow.

"Tell me about your uncles, Clive," said the Colonel, as they walked on
arm in arm.

"What about them, sir?" asks the boy. "I don't think I know much."

"You have been to stay with them. You wrote about them. Were they kind
to you?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose they are very kind. They always tipped me: only you
know when I go there I scarcely ever see them. Mr. Newcome asks me the
oftenest--two or three times a quarter when he's in town, and gives me a
sovereign regular."

"Well, he must see you to give you the sovereign," says Clive's father,
laughing.

The boy blushed rather.

"Yes. When it's time to go back to Smithfield on a Sunday night, I go
into the dining-room to shake hands, and he gives it me; but he don't
speak to me much, you know, and I don't care about going to Bryanstone
Square, except for the tip, of course that's important, because I am
made to dine with the children, and they are quite little ones; and a
great cross French governess, who is always crying and shrieking
after them, and finding fault with them. My uncle generally has his
dinner-parties on Saturday, or goes out; and aunt gives me ten shillings
and sends me to the play; that's better fun than a dinner-party." Here
the lad blushed again. "I used," says he, "when I was younger, to stand
on the stairs and prig things out of the dishes when they came out from
dinner, but I'm past that now. Maria (that's my cousin) used to take the
sweet things and give 'em to the governess. Fancy! she used to put lumps
of sugar into her pocket and eat them in the schoolroom! Uncle Hobson
don't live in such good society as Uncle Newcome. 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 h