They strolled down the terrace, and through one of the windows into the hall. Firmin had lighted the lamps, two of them. They made but a small oasis of light in a desert of dim hall. The millionaire let himself down very gingerly into an Empire chair, as if he feared, with excellent reason, that it might collapse under his weight.
“Well, my dear Duke,” he said, “you don’t ask me the result of my official lunch or what the minister said.”
“Is there any news?” said the Duke carelessly.
“Yes. The decree will be signed to-morrow. You can consider yourself decorated. I hope you feel a happy man,” said the millionaire, rubbing his fat hands together with prodigious satisfaction.
“Oh, charmed—charmed,” said the Duke, with entire indifference.
“As for me, I’m delighted—delighted,” said the millionaire. “I was extremely keen on your being decorated. After that, and after a volume or two of travels, and after you’ve published your grandfather’s letters with a good introduction, you can begin to think of the Academy.”
“The Academy!” said the Duke, startled from his usual coolness. “But I’ve no title to become an Academician.”
“How, no title?” said the millionaire solemnly; and his little eyes opened wide. “You’re a duke.”
“There’s no doubt about that,” said the Duke, watching him with admiring curiosity.
“I mean to marry my daughter to a worker—a worker, my dear Duke,” said the millionaire, slapping his big left hand with his bigger right. “I’ve no prejudices—not I. I wish to have for son-in-law a duke who wears the Order of the Legion of Honour, and belongs to the Academie Française, because that is personal merit. I’m no snob.”