The
consolation of real sonship was always left him certainly; but he
could not help groaning to himself, 'Why cannot a son be one's own
and somebody else's likewise!'
The Marquis was shortly afterwards in the neighbourhood of
Stapleford, and Timothy Petrick met him, and eyed his noble
countenance admiringly. The next day, when Petrick was in his
study, somebody knocked at the door.
'Who's there?'
'Rupert.'
'I'll Rupert thee, you young impostor! Say, only a poor commonplace
Petrick!' his father grunted. 'Why didn't you have a voice like the
Marquis's I saw yesterday?' he continued, as the lad came in. 'Why
haven't you his looks, and a way of commanding, as if you'd done it
for centuries--hey?'
'Why? How can you expect it, father, when I'm not related to him?'
'Ugh! Then you ought to be!' growled his father.
As the narrator paused, the surgeon, the Colonel, the historian, the
Spark, and others exclaimed that such subtle and instructive
psychological studies as this (now that psychology was so much in
demand) were precisely the tales they desired, as members of a
scientific club, and begged the master-maltster to tell another
curious mental delusion.
The maltster shook his head, and feared he was not genteel enough to
tell another story with a sufficiently moral tone in it to suit the
club; he would prefer to leave the next to a better man.
The Colonel had fallen into reflection.
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