“The Duke of Belfayre?” she repeated; “that’s an awful swell, isn’t it—something near a prince or a king?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Norman; “but he is a swell. There are not many dukes, you see, and the dukedom is a particularly old one—I mean, that the title goes a long way back—and the duke himself is an old man.”
“And your cousin will be the duke when his cousin dies?” she said, as if she were trying to understand.
“Yes,” said Norman; “but we all hope that will be a long while; for the duke is the dearest old chap, and Trafford is as fond of him as he can be.”
“And you are fond of Trafford?” she asked.
“I should think so—rather! Why, there’s nobody in the world like Trafford!”
“Why?” she asked, not unreasonably.
“Well, he’s a splendid fellow! I wish you could see him, and then you’d understand, without my saying another word.”
“Why is he so splendid?” she asked. “What does he do?”