"I've got it all writ down here, sir—I mean your grace." (The Duke of Battersea made an impatient gesture—he could not bear to have his title insisted upon.) "It's all here," repeated Mr. Bevan with legitimate pride.
"Give it me," said the Duke of Battersea quietly.
Mr. Bevan knew the world as well as a man can under his circumstances; he also was one of the strong girders of our State, not one of its painted ornaments; but when two generals meet the greater conquers. He handed over the paper quite innocently, and before he knew what had happened, the Duke of Battersea had put it in the fire; nay, with a vigour rare at his age and rarer still in men of his worldly possessions, he had thrust it among the coals with the toe of his boot.
Mr. Bevan could not restrain a movement towards it. He was too late to save it, then the reserve which the presence of the Great imposes upon us all recalled him to himself.
This brief episode over—and it did not take thirty seconds—the Duke of Battersea said in a rather louder, more vibrant tone than he had yet used:
"Thank you, Bevan, there iss your money"—he wagged his head towards the table. "You said you would not take it in a cheque; so: but I like to know where my money goes; and how also."
Mr. Bevan opened his mouth to speak.
"It is take it or leaf it," said the Duke of Battersea.
Mr. Bevan took it.