"So you're the new Duke of St. Osmund's," said Hunt, with a singular deliberation. "I wasn't to know that, of course; no, by gosh, not likely!"
"Well, you know it now," was the reply. "And—and I'm sorry I had to hit you so hard, Hunt!"
"Oh, don't apologise," said Hunt, with a sneer that showed a front tooth missing. "Stop a bit, though; I'm not so sure," he added, with a glance of evil insight.
"Sure of what?"
"Whether you oughtn't to apologise for not hitting a man of your own age!"
"Take no notice of him," whispered Claude strenuously; but he obtained none himself.
"Nonsense," said the Duke; "you're the younger man, at all events."
"Am I? I was born in '59, I was."
"Then according to all accounts you're the younger man by four years."
"By—four—years," repeated Hunt slowly. "So you was born in '55! Thank you; I shall make a note of that, you may be sure—your Grace!"