Frank entered, holding a silver salver. “With Miss Angela Hordern’s compliments, your Grace.”
“Thank you, Frank. You can serve the fish; and beg Alphonse in future to wait for his cue.”
“Very good, your Grace.”
Frank withdrew, and the Duke examined the paper which he had taken from the salver. It acquired a certain interest from having passed through Miss Angela’s hands. The Duke fingered it delicately and eyed it pensively. It was entitled “A Dram for a Drinker; or, Just a Drop to do you Good.”
“A neat title,” the Duke mused, “but perhaps liable to defeat its own object by evoking a reminiscence too pleasurable.”
Frank entered with the fish. “Frank, I am at home next time Miss Hordern calls. You are not—nor Monsieur Alphonse.”
“Very good, your Grace,” Frank answered. “Your Grace will answer the door yourself?”
The Duke had overlooked the point. He did not feel that he could answer a door at all plausibly.
“Leave it on the jar,” he commanded, in a happy inspiration.
But when he was left alone his brow clouded a little. “Suppose the mother comes!” he thought. His face cleared. “She shall see Alphonse and Frank. And I will see Miss Angela.” He lit his cigar with a composed cheerfulness. “It is impossible,” he said meditatively, “to deny the interest of a sociological experiment. I am, however, inclined to hope that it will rain very hard to-morrow.” He stroked his back warily as he slid into a chair.