He enjoyed no increase of rank until, his fortieth year long passed, he had purchased the great daily, and there, as in everything he did, he succeeded. It was after the negotiations which established Mrs. Fossilton in office that the last step was taken and that a new ducal title, an honor which had been for so long unknown—longer than men could remember—was suddenly given him.
It did not mean what it would have meant in the old days before the War, days which those of us who are now not so far on in middle age can still remember, but of which the younger generation knows nothing. But he wanted it, and therefore it was right that he should have it. There was no great harm done. It is true he had an heir, but the boy had been born late in his life, and had never known anything but the atmosphere of a Public School, so it was safe enough; and though he had built his own place in the country, instead of buying it, it did not swear with his rank.
He finished reading the proof, ticked it off, and rang. He asked for his secretary, and when the secretary came he said:
“Say, see here, boy, how’s all this shout ’bout John K. Petre and Touaregs?”
“It’s quite true,” said the secretary, who was where he was because he knew everything and knew it rightly, and who had become so necessary that he had promotion and now said “Duke” instead of “Your Grace.”
“How d’yer know it?” said his Grace, mumbling, with the big cigar jerked to the other corner of his mouth, but by a feat of dexterity, learned in a distant clime, kept admirably at its exalted angle.
“Oh, it’s everywhere, Duke,” said the younger man quietly, lighting a cigarette without leave, and sitting down.
“Quite sure, now, boy?”
“Quite.”
There was a pause during which the Duke frowned thoughtfully. Then he took the cigar out of his mouth between the first and middle finger of his right hand—a gesture which he only used in great moments—and said: