you call him, "Your Grace," or "His Grace," or just
"Grace," or "Duke," or what. All of which things would
seem to a director of the People's Bank and the president
of the Republican Soda Co. so trivial in importance that
he would scorn to ask about them.

So that was why Mr. Fyshe had asked Mr. Furlong to lunch
with him, and to dine with him later on in the same day
at the Mausoleum Club to meet the Duke of Dulham. And
Mr. Furlong, realizing that a clergyman must be all things
to all men and not avoid a man merely because he is a
duke, had accepted the invitation to lunch, and had
promised to come to dinner, even though it meant postponing
the Willing Workers' Tango Class of St. Asaph's until the
following Friday.

Thus it had come about that Mr. Fyshe was seated at lunch,
consuming a cutlet and a pint of Moselle in the plain
downright fashion of a man so democratic that he is
practically a revolutionary socialist, and doesn't mind
saying so; and the young rector of St. Asaph's was sitting
opposite to him in a religious ecstasy over a _salmi_ of
duck.

"The Duke arrived this morning, did he not?" said Mr.
Furlong.

"From New York," said Mr. Fyshe. "He is staying at the
Grand Palaver. I sent a telegram through one of our New
York directors of the Traction, and his Grace has very