“Morning, Richard,” he said, with a marked cordiality. “Have you met the Duke of Chartersea? No! Your Grace, this is Mr. Richard Carvel. His family are dear friends of ours in the colonies.”
To my great surprise, the duke saluted me quite civilly. But I had the feeling of facing a treacherous bull which would gore me as soon as ever my back was turned. He was always putting me in mind of a bull, with his short neck and heavy, hunched shoulders,—and with the ugly tinge of red in the whites of his eyes.
“Mr. Manners tells me you are to remain awhile in London, Mr. Carvel,” he said, in his thick voice.
I took his meaning instantly, and replied in kind.
“Yes, your Grace, I have some business to attend to here.”
“Ah,” he answered; “then I shall see you again.”
“Probably, sir,” said I.
His Lordship watched this thrust and parry with an ill-concealed delight. Dorothy's face was impassive, expressionless. As the duke turned to mount the stairs, he stumbled clumsily across a young man coming to pay his respects to Miss Manners, and his Grace went sprawling against the wall.
“Confound you, sir!” he cried.
For the ducal temper was no respecter of presences. Then a title was a title to those born lower, and the young man plainly had a vast honour for a coronet.