'"That, Mr. Grig," says the old gentleman, "is my little boy. He
was christened Galileo Isaac Newton Flamstead. Don't mind him.
He's a mere child."

'"And a very fine child too," says Tom - still aggravating, you'll
observe - "of his age, and as good as fine, I have no doubt. How
do you do, my man?" with which kind and patronising expressions,
Tom reached up to pat him on the head, and quoted two lines about
little boys, from Doctor Watts's Hymns, which he had learnt at a
Sunday School.

'It was very easy to see, gentlemen, by this youngster's frowning
and by the waiting-maid's tossing her head and turning up her nose,
and by the young ladies turning their backs and talking together at
the other end of the room, that nobody but the old gentleman took
very kindly to the noble stranger. Indeed, Tom plainly heard the
waiting-woman say of her master, that so far from being able to
read the stars as he pretended, she didn't believe he knew his
letters in 'em, or at best that he had got further than words in
one syllable; but Tom, not minding this (for he was in spirits
after the Madeira), looks with an agreeable air towards the young
ladies, and, kissing his hand to both, says to the old gentleman,
"Which is which?"

'"This," says the old gentleman, leading out the handsomest, if one
of 'em could possibly be said to be handsomer than the other -
"this is my niece, Miss Fanny Barker."

'"If you'll permit me, Miss," says Tom, "being a noble stranger and
a favourite of the planets, I will conduct myself as such." With