But there was a sprinkling of a better class, or, at all events, of a class that had not as yet sunk so low as they in the mire of debauchery:  a young lord or two in their minority, whom their parents or guardians could not coerce into keeping better company; and other young gentlemen of fashion, in whose eyes Carew was “A devilish good fellow at bottom;” “Quite a character, by Jove!” and “A sort of man to know.”  Among these last was Mr. Frederick Chandos, who had so lately got among the chrysanthemums with his gig-wheels, and Mr. Theodore Fane, his bosom friend, who always sat beside him on his driving-seat, and in return for sharing his perils, was reported to have the whip-hand of him.  Nor was old age itself without its representative in the person of Mr. Byam Byll, once a master of fox-hounds, now a pauperized gourmand, who, in consideration of his coarse wit and “gentlemen’s stories,” was permitted to have the run of his teeth at Crompton.  This Falstaff to the Squire’s Prince Hal was a rotund and portly man, like his great prototype, but singularly handsome.  His smile was winning yet, and, in spite of his load of years and fat, he still considered himself agreeable to the fair sex.

For this information and much more, respecting the character of his fellow-guests, Yorke was indebted to a very singular personage, who had introduced himself to him as “Parson Whymper,” and whom he now knew to be the Squire’s chaplain.  The reverend divine was as proud of that office (and infinitely more comfortable in it) as though he had been chaplain to an archbishop.  He was the only man present who wore a black coat, and he had a grave voice and insinuating manner, which really did smack something of the pulpit.

“Mr. Yorke,” said he, blandly, “I make no apology for introducing myself to you; Carew and I have been just having a talk about you, and he has no secrets from his ghostly adviser.  I take your hand with pleasure.  I seem to feel it is the flesh and blood of my best friend.  Sooner or later, mark me, he will own as much, and, be sure, no effort of mine shall be wanting to insure so desirable a consummation.”

Yorke flushed with pleasure, not at the honeyed terms, nor the good-will they evidenced, but at the news itself—­the fact of his father having revealed their relationship to him seemed so full of promise—­and yet he resented the man’s professions, the audacity of which seemed certainly to imply that he was taken for a fool.

“I am sure, Mr. Whymper,” said he, stiffly, “I ought to be greatly obliged to you.”

“Hush!  Not Mr. Whymper, if you please, for that’s a fine here.  Every body at Crompton calls me ‘Parson.’  Obliged, Sir!  Not at all.  It is only natural that, being what I am, I should wish you well.  The law, it is true, has decided against your legitimacy, but the Church is bound to think otherwise.  In my eyes you are the Squire’s only son”—­here he made a whispering-trumpet of his brawny hands, and added with great significance—­“and heir.”