‘How came you to be his master, sir?’ asked Rosa.

‘A question that naturally follows,’ said Mr. Grewgious.  ’Let’s talk.  Mr. Bazzard’s father, being a Norfolk farmer, would have furiously laid about him with a flail, a pitch-fork, and every agricultural implement available for assaulting purposes, on the slightest hint of his son’s having written a play.  So the son, bringing to me the father’s rent (which I receive), imparted his secret, and pointed out that he was determined to pursue his genius, and that it would put him in peril of starvation, and that he was not formed for it.’

‘For pursuing his genius, sir?’

‘No, my dear,’ said Mr. Grewgious, ’for starvation.  It was impossible to deny the position, that Mr. Bazzard was not formed to be starved, and Mr. Bazzard then pointed out that it was desirable that I should stand between him and a fate so perfectly unsuited to his formation.  In that way Mr. Bazzard became my clerk, and he feels it very much.’

‘I am glad he is grateful,’ said Rosa.

’I didn’t quite mean that, my dear.  I mean, that he feels the degradation.  There are some other geniuses that Mr. Bazzard has become acquainted with, who have also written tragedies, which likewise nobody will on any account whatever hear of bringing out, and these choice spirits dedicate their plays to one another in a highly panegyrical manner.  Mr. Bazzard has been the subject of one of these dedications.  Now, you know, I never had a play dedicated to me!’

Rosa looked at him as if she would have liked him to be the recipient of a thousand dedications.

‘Which again, naturally, rubs against the grain of Mr. Bazzard,’ said Mr. Grewgious.  ’He is very short with me sometimes, and then I feel that he is meditating, “This blockhead is my master!  A fellow who couldn’t write a tragedy on pain of death, and who will never have one dedicated to him with the most complimentary congratulations on the high position he has taken in the eyes of posterity!” Very trying, very trying.  However, in giving him directions, I reflect beforehand:  “Perhaps he may not like this,” or “He might take it ill if I asked that;” and so we get on very well.  Indeed, better than I could have expected.’

‘Is the tragedy named, sir?’ asked Rosa.

‘Strictly between ourselves,’ answered Mr. Grewgious, ’it has a dreadfully appropriate name.  It is called The Thorn of Anxiety.  But Mr. Bazzard hopes—­and I hope—­that it will come out at last.’

It was not hard to divine that Mr. Grewgious had related the Bazzard history thus fully, at least quite as much for the recreation of his ward’s mind from the subject that had driven her there, as for the gratification of his own tendency to be social and communicative.

‘And now, my dear,’ he said at this point, ’if you are not too tired to tell me more of what passed to-day—­but only if you feel quite able—­I should be glad to hear it.  I may digest it the better, if I sleep on it to-night.’