The Duke of St. Osmund's took off his monstrous wideawake, and passed the back of his hairy hand across his forehead. The gesture was eloquent of a mind appalled.
"Have I no homestead on my own run?" he inquired at length.
"You have several," said Claude, smiling; but he also hesitated.
"Several in London?" cried the Duke, aghast again.
"No—only one in town."
"That's better! I say, though, why aren't we going there?"
"Well, the fact is, they're not quite ready for you; I mean the servants. They—we were all rather rushed, you know, and they don't expect you to-night. Do you mind?"
Claude had stated but one fact of many. That morning, when he stopped his hansom at the house, he had told the servants not to expect his Grace until he telegraphed. After seeing the Duke, he had resolved not to telegraph at all; and certainly not to install him in his own house, as he was, without consulting other members of the family. He still considered that decision justified. Nevertheless, the Duke's reply came as a great relief.
"No, I'm just as glad," said Jack contentedly. His contentment was only comparative, however. The first dim conception of his greatness had strangely dashed him; he was no longer the man that he had been in the train.
An athlete in a frayed frock-coat, and no shirt, was sprinting behind the cab with the customary intent; it was a glimpse of him, as they turned a corner, that slew the oppressed Duke, and brought Happy Jack back to life.