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He found Mr. Marchmont a very sensible man, and he met a file of orderly-looking young gentlemen walking townward under the escort of a couple of ushers as he entered the house.

He told the schoolmaster that little George Talboys had been left in his charge by a dear friend, who had sailed for Australia some months before, and whom he believed to be dead. He confided him to Mr. Marchmont’s especial care, and he further requested that no visitors should be admitted to see the boy unless accredited by a letter from himself. Having arranged the matter in a very few business-like words, he returned to the hotel to fetch Georgey.

He found the little man on intimate terms with the idle waiter, who had been directing Master Georgey’s attention to the different objects of interest in the High street.

Poor Robert had about as much notion of the requirements of a child as he had of those of a white elephant. He had catered for silkworms, guinea-pigs, dormice, canary-birds, and dogs, without number, during his boyhood, but he had never been called upon to provide for a young person of five years old.

He looked back five-and-twenty years, and tried to remember his own diet at the age of five.

“I’ve a vague recollection of getting a good deal of bread and milk and boiled mutton,” he thought; “and I’ve another vague recollection of not liking them. I wonder if this boy likes bread and milk and boiled mutton.”

He stood pulling his thick mustache and staring thoughtfully at the child for some minutes before he could get any further.

“I dare say you’re hungry, Georgey?” he said, at last.

The boy nodded, and the waiter whisked some more invisible dust from the nearest table as a preparatory step toward laying a cloth.

“Perhaps you’d like some lunch?” Mr. Audley suggested, still pulling his mustache.

The boy burst out laughing.

“Lunch!” he cried. “Why, it’s afternoon, and I’ve had my dinner.”

Robert Audley felt himself brought to a standstill. What refreshment could he possibly provide for a boy who called it afternoon at three o’clock?

“You shall have some bread and milk, Georgey,” he said, presently. “Waiter, bread and milk, and a pint of hock.”

Master Talboys made a wry face.

“I never have bread and milk,” he said, “I don’t like it. I like what gran’pa calls something savory. I should like a veal cutlet. Gran’pa told me he dined here once, and the veal cutlets were lovely, gran’pa said. Please may I have a veal cutlet, with egg and bread-crumb, you know, and lemon-juice you know?” he added to the waiter: “Gran’pa knows the cook here. The cook’s such a nice gentleman, and once gave me a shilling, when gran’pa brought me here. The cook wears better clothes than gran’pa—better than yours, even,” said Master Georgey, pointing to Robert’s rough great-coat with a depreciating nod.

Robert Audley stared aghast. How was he to deal with this epicure of five years old, who rejected bread and milk and asked for veal cutlets?

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you, little Georgey,” he exclaimed, after a pause—”I’ll give you a dinner!”

The waiter nodded briskly.

“Upon my word, sir,” he said, approvingly, “I think the little gentleman will know how to eat it.”

“I’ll give you a dinner, Georgey,” repeated Robert—”some stewed eels, a little Julienne, a dish of cutlets, a bird, and a pudding. What do you say to that, Georgey?”

“I don’t think the young gentleman will object to it when he sees it, sir,” said the waiter. “Eels, Julienne, cutlets, bird, pudding—I’ll go and tell the cook, sir. What time, sir?”

“Well, we’ll say six, and Master Georgey will get to his new school by bedtime. You can contrive to amuse the child for this afternoon, I dare say. I have some business to settle, and sha’n’t be able to take him out. I shall sleep here to-night. Good-by, Georgey; take care of yourself and try and get your appetite in order against six o’clock.”