"From the stainless knight?"
"From the stainless knight," said Hank. "Say, Duke, these effete European institutions do surely impress me."
He paused.
"Here's a duke," mused Hank, "a real duke. Not a hand-me-down duke with a saggin' collar, not a made-to-measure-in-ten-minutes duke, but a proper bespoke duke, cut from patterns. Here's a knight with golden spurs, rather stout but otherwise knightly, especially about the coat of arms: here's a lord—Baron This and That of This-Shire, walked straight from his baronial castle in Regent Street to harry the marshes of Brockley——"
The Duke sat up.
"Now," he said with deliberate politeness, "now that you have thoroughly mystified the audience, are you offering a prize for the solution or are you holding it over till the next number? The Duke with his admirable qualities, I instantly recognize; the knight is apparent, in spite of his spurs. Who is the baron? Is he allegorical or illustrative or a figure of speech?"
"He's 62," said Hank.
The Duke's face bore a look of patient resignation.
"There must be a prize offered," he reflected aloud.
"In fact," elucidated Hank, "62's a real baron—a lord—His Nibs."