"A jolly little fellow."

"Just like his father."

"Rather early to say that, isn't it?"

"Well, I don't know, got the same smile. His mother's rather languid."

"Beautiful woman, though."

"Oh, lovely!"

Upon a certain afternoon in March about four o'clock, there was quite a
gathering of persons in Henry Fitzgeorge's nursery. There was his
mother, with those two great friends of hers, Lady Emily Blanchard and
the Hon. Mrs. Vavasour; there was Her Grace's mother, Mrs. P. Tunster
(an enormously stout lady); there was Miss Helen Crasper, who was
staying in the house. These people were gathered at the end of the cot,
and they looked down upon Henry Fitzgeorge, and he lay upon his back,
gazed at them thoughtfully, and clenched and unclenched his fat hands.

Opposite his cot were some very wide windows, and three windows were
filled with galleons of cloud--fat, bolster, swelling vessels, white,
save where, in their curving sails, they had caught a faint radiance
from the hidden sun. In fine procession, against the blue, they passed
along. Very faint and muffled there came up from the Square the
lingering notes of "Robin Adair." This is a Wednesday afternoon, and it
is the lady with the black straw hat who is singing. The nursery has
white walls--it is filled with colour; the fire blazes with a yellow-red
gleam that rises and falls across the shining floor.