Doctor. As much as of anything else. His Grace never reminds me of anything.
[A young and very high American voice is heard calling in the garden. "Say, could somebody see to one of these trunks?"
[Mr. Hastings goes out into the garden. He returns with Morris Carleon, a very young man: hardly more than a boy, but with very grown-up American dress and manners. He is dark, smallish, and active; and the racial type under his Americanism is Irish.
Morris. [Humorously, as he puts in his head at the window.] See here, does a Duke live here?
Doctor. [Who is nearest to him, with great gravity.] Yes, only one.
Morris. I reckon he's the one I want, anyhow. I'm his nephew.
[The Duke, who is ruminating in the foreground, with one eye rather off, turns at the voice and shakes Morris warmly by the hand.
Duke. Delighted to see you, my dear boy. I hear you've been doing very well for yourself.
Morris. [Laughing.] Well, pretty well, Duke; and better still for Paul T. Vandam, I guess. I manage the old man's mines out in Arizona, you know.
Duke. [Shaking his head sagaciously.] Ah, very go-ahead man! Very go-ahead methods, I'm told. Well, I dare say he does a great deal of good with his money. And we can't go back to the Spanish Inquisition.