"You are no chicken, Barker, and perhaps you are right. If they catch you they can catch anybody," he said aloud.
"Well, I used to say the mamma was not born who could secure me. But I am getting old, and my nerves are shaken, and a secret presentiment tells me I shall be bagged before long, and delivered over to the tormentors."
"I pity you if you are," said the Duke. "No more poker, and very little tobacco then."
"Not as bad as that. You are as much married as most men, but it does not interfere with the innocent delights of your leisure hours, that I can see."
"Ah, well—you see—I am pretty lucky. The Duchess is a domestic type of angel. Likes children and bric-à-brac and poultry, and all those things. Takes no end of trouble about the place."
"Why should not I marry the angelic domestic—the domestic angel, I mean?"
"You won't, though. Doesn't grow in America. I know the sort of woman you will get for your money."
"Give me an idea." Barker leaned back in his chair till it touched the door of the cabin, and rolled his cigar in his mouth.
"Of course she will be the rage for the time. Eighteen or nineteen summers of earthly growth, and eighteen or nineteen hundred years of experience and calculation in a former state."
"Thanks, that sounds promising. Claudius, this is intended for your instruction."