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realest duke you've ever seen: canned in the Dukeries an' bearin' the government analyst's certificate."

      "But – but," said the bewildered boy, "no larks – I say, are you truly a duke?"

      He looked appealingly at the younger man whose eyes were dancing.

      He nodded his head and became instantly grave.

      "I'm a truly duke," he said sadly, "keep it dark."

      He put his hand in his pocket, and produced with elaborate deliberation a small card case. From this he extracted a piece of paste-board, and handed to Willie who read —

"THE DUC DE MONTVILLIER,"

      and in a corner "San Pio Ranch, Tex."

      "I'm not," continued the young man modestly, "I'm not an English duke: if anything I'm rather superior to the average English duke: I've got royal blood in my veins, and I shall be very pleased to see you at No. 64."

      "From 10 till 4," interposed the grave Hank.

      "From 10 till 4," accepted the other, "which are my office hours."

      "For duking," explained Hank.

      "Exactly – for duking," said his grace.

      Willie looked from one to the other.

      "I say!" he blurted, "you're pulling my leg, aren't you? I say! you're rotting me."

      "I told you so," murmured the Duke resentfully, "Hank, he thinks I'm rotting – he's certain I'm pulling his leg, Hank."

      Hank said nothing.

      Only he shook his head despairingly, and taking the other's arm, they continued their walk, their bowed shoulders eloquent of their dejection.

      Willie watched them for a moment, then turned and sped homeward with the news.

II

      The Earl of Windermere wrote to the Rev. Arthur Stayne, M.A., vicar of St. Magnus, Brockley —

      "I have just heard that your unfortunate parish is to be inflicted with young de Montvillier. What process of reasoning led him to fix upon Brockley I cannot, dare not, fathom. You may be sure that this freak of his has some devilishly subtle cause – don't let him worry your good parishioners. He was at Eton with my boy Jim. I met him cow punching in Texas a few years ago when I was visiting the States, and he was of some service to me. He belongs to one of the oldest families in France, but his people were chucked out at the time of the Revolution. He is as good as gold, as plucky as they make 'em, and, thanks to his father (the only one of the family to settle anywhere for long), thoroughly Anglicized in sympathies and in language. He is quite 'the compleat philosopher,' flippant, audacious and casual. His pal Hank, who is with him, is George Hankey, the man who discovered silver in Los Madeges. Both of them have made and lost fortunes, but I believe they have come back to England with something like a competence. Call on them. They will probably be very casual with you, but they are both worth cultivating."

      The Rev. Arthur Stayne called and was admitted into the barely-furnished hall by the deferential man-servant.

      "His grace will see you in the common-room," he said, and ushered the clergyman into the back parlour.

      The Duke rose with a smile, and came toward him with outstretched hand.

      Hank got up from his lounge chair, and waved away the cloud of smoke that hovered about his head.

      "Glad to see you, sir," said the Duke, with a note of respect in his voice, "this is Mr. Hankey."

      The vicar, on his guard against a possibility of brusqueness, returned Hank's friendly grin with relief.

      "I've had a letter from Windermere," he explained. The Duke looked puzzled for a moment and he turned to his companion.

      "That's the guy that fell off the bronco," Hank said with a calm politeness, totally at variance with his disrespectful language.

      The vicar looked at him sharply.

      "Oh yes!" said the Duke eagerly, "of course. I picked him up."

      There came to the vicar's mind a recollection that this young man had been "of some service to me." He smiled.

      This broke the ice, and soon there was a three-cornered conversation in progress, which embraced subjects, as far apart as cattle ranching, and gardening.

      "Now look here, you people," said the vicar, growing serious after a while, "I've got something to say to you – why have you come to Brockley?"

      The two men exchanged glances.

      "Well," said the Duke slowly, "there were several considerations that helped us to decide – first of all the death-rate is very low."

      "And the gravel soil," murmured Hank encouragingly.

      "And the gravel soil," the Duke went on, nodding his head wisely, "and the rates, you know – "

      The vicar raised his hand laughingly.

      "Three hundred feet above sea level," he smiled, "yes, I know all about the advertised glories of Brockley – but really?"

      Again they looked at each other.

      "Shall I?" asked the Duke.

      "Ye-es," hesitated Hank; "you'd better."

      The young man sighed.

      "Have you ever been a duke on a ranch," he asked innocently, "a cattle punching duke, rounding in, branding, roping and earmarking cattle – no? I thought not. Have you ever been a duke prospecting silver or searching for diamonds in the bad lands of Brazil?"

      "That's got him," said Hank in a stage whisper.

      The vicar waited.

      "Have you ever been a duke under conditions and in circumstances where you were addressed by your title in much the same way as you call your gardener 'Jim'?"

      The vicar shook his head.

      "I knew he hadn't," said Hank triumphantly.

      "If you had," said the young man with severity, "if your ears had ached with, 'Here, Duke, get up and light the fire,' or 'Where's that fool Duke,' or 'Say, Dukey, lend me a chaw of tobacco' – if you had had any of these experiences, would you not" – he tapped the chest of the vicar with solemn emphasis – "would you not pine for a life, and a land where dukes were treated as dukes ought to be treated, where any man saying 'Jukey' can be tried for High Treason, and brought to the rack?"

      "By Magna Charta," murmured Hank.

      "And the Declaration of Rights," added the Duke indignantly.

      The vicar rose, his lips twitching.

      "You will not complain of a lack of worship here," he said.

      He was a little relieved by the conversation, for he saw behind the extravagance a glimmer of truth, "only please don't shock my people too much," he smiled, as he stood at the door.

      "I hope," said the Duke with dignity, "that we shall not shock your people at all. After all, we are gentlefolk."

      "We buy our beer by the keg," murmured Hank proudly.

* * * * *

      There were other callers.

      There is, I believe, a game called "Snip, Snap, Snorum," where if you call "Snap" too soon you are penalised, and if you call "Snap" too late you pay forfeit. Calling on the duke was a sort of game of social snap, for Kymott Crescent vacillated in an agony of apprehension between the bad form of calling too soon, and the terrible disadvantage that might accrue through calling too late and finding some hated social rival installed as confidential adviser and Fides Achates.

      The Coyters were the first to call, thus endorsing the Crescent's opinion of Mrs. C.

      Coyter fired off his three stories: —

      (1) What the parrot said to the policeman.

      (2) What the County Court judge said to the obdurate creditor who wanted time to pay (can you guess the story?).

      (3) What the parson said to the couple who wanted to be married without banns.

      Duke and Co. laughed politely.

      Mrs.

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