Montagu Jerrold crooked his elbow and lifted the brown strong hand of High-pockets to a level with his own weak chin, before he deigned to shake it. He did so then with an air, and a drawled "How d'y' do?" which was the most English thing that Nick had ever met with off the stage.
"Little brute, I'd like to kick him if he wasn't such a duffer," was Nick's reluctant thought, for he had wanted to be favourably impressed by the Dook. If this were really anything like an English duke, give him a crossing-sweeper! But he must not be too hasty in his generalization. He was unhappily sure that Mrs. May's position in her far-off world (world for which he was deemed unworthy) associated her with dukes, earls, barons, counts, and all sorts of titled anachronisms of every nation. Repulsive as this draggled specimen appeared, it might know something worth his, Nick Hilliard's, while to learn; and he was not going to give up because of first impressions. He had not met Montagu Jerrold before, but had heard of him often during the last three or four months since the Englishman "blew into" Lucky Star City. He was a boaster as well as a waster, no doubt; for according to himself, he knew "everybody at home," from the King down the whole gamut of the British peerage. Also he "claimed" to be an Oxford man, and it was that which, in this emergency, had focused Nick's attention upon him.
The landlord, aware that Nick had a "proposition" to make, excused himself when he had brought off the introduction; and the two men were left more or less alone at their end of the hotel veranda. Nevertheless, so complicated was the nature of Nick's business that he wished for greater privacy, and he suggested a stroll in the direction of the gusher.
"You're an Oxford graduate, aren't you?" he began.
"Ya-as, I went up to Oxford from Eton," drawled Jerrold with an accent which Nick disliked, but was ready to believe in as well-bred, because few Englishmen to the "manner born" had happened to come his way. "All the elder sons of my family, since the days of Charles the Second, don't you know, have gone in for the Army; and that's what I should have liked, but my eldest brother has the money as well as the title, d'you see, and I'm only third son. I——"
"Yes," said Nick curtly. "But you mustn't worry to tell me all your private affairs unless you really want to. Because what I'm most interested in is the Oxford part. I never went to college, nor to any school for the matter of that, except a night one, but I've tried to make up a bit with reading all I could. I suppose I don't know much about books, compared with you——"
"Oh, I was never much of a grind," the other cut in hastily. "I went in for other things. I was cox——".
"It's etiquette I'm thinking of," Nick confessed humbly. "You'd be born knowin' a lot about that, I dare say, in your family. And then, being at Oxford, too! I always notice college men have a different way from those who haven't been to any university. It's hard to explain the difference, but it's there."
"Oh, rather," agreed the Englishman. "You know our King himself will send all his sons to Oxford and Cambridge. Nothin' like it, my dear fellow, what? Our family——"
"Could you give lessons, sort of object-lessons, in what to do and what not do in society?" inquired Nick, eager yet shy, not ashamed of his motive in asking, but fearful by instinct that he was not getting hold of the right man.