Fortified by this send-off, and aware that he had at least one person in his train who would do what lay in his power to persuade him to follow out all the more disagreeable orders laid upon him, the Duke left Sale Park, a prey to dejection, and a great many rebellious thoughts.

For the first half of the journey, he indulged his fancy by forming several impossible schemes for shocking and confounding his relatives, but as soon as the absurdity of these struck him he began to be amused at himself, and his ill-humour, never very durable, lifted. He might chafe at his uncle’s domineering ways, but he could not be angry with him. He thought it must indeed have been a wearing task to have reared such an unpromising specimen as himself, and for perhaps the hundredth time resolved that it should not be a thankless task as well. Lord Lionel might have been, in the past, a severe guardian; he might cling to strict, old-fashioned ideas, and insist on having these conformed to; he might often have been over-anxious, and have irked his ward with restrictions and prohibitions; but the Duke knew well that he had acted throughout on the highest principles, and had for him an affection perhaps as deep as for his own son. He had certainly taken far greater care of him, and shown him more partiality. It was Gideon who had received the blame for any boyish escapade—with a certain amount of justice, reflected the Duke, smiling  to himself, as he recalled various instances of his elder and more enterprising cousin’s exploits. Gideon was sent to Eton, but Lord Lionel dared not expose his sickly nephew to the rigours of public school life, and engaged for him a resident tutor, and any number of visiting instructors, from a French dancing-master to a Professor in the Art of Self-Defence. It had been solicitude, not mistrust, which had prompted him to send Gilly up to Oxford under the aegis of Mr. Romsey, and Gilly had most unfortunately taken a chill which (owing, his lordship was convinced, to neglect) had developed into an inflammation of the lungs which had nearly carried him off. There could be no question after that of sending him up to Oxford alone.

Only his obstinate conviction that no gentleman who had not spent a few years on the Continent could be considered to be more than half-educated had prevailed upon Lord Lionel to take the hazardous risk of exposing his nephew, upon his coming down from Oxford, to the dangers of travel. But the long war with France having terminated in the glorious battle of Waterloo (in which action Gideon had sustained a wound that caused his father no particular anxiety), the Continent was once more open to English travellers, and Lord Lionel steeled himself to send Gilly on a tour which should conform as nearly as possible to the Grand Tours of his own young days. With this end in view, he engaged Captain Belper to share with Mr. Romsey the duties and responsibilities of bear-leading the Duke through France, Italy, and such parts of Germany as had not been ravaged by war.

The Duke was well aware that in choosing Captain Belper to instruct him in all manly exercises Lord Lionel had meant to place him in the charge of one who, while old enough to hold authority over him, should not be too old or to staid to be a companion to him. Unfortunately, the quiet young nobleman found that he had little in common with the bluff soldier, sometimes came near to disliking him, and never accorded him more than the gentle courtesy he used towards Mr. Romsey. He had spent two years abroad, and although these had not been altogether enjoyable they had certainly done much to improve the state of his health. He wondered sometimes how any two persons could have been prevailed upon to undertake the task of following out the conflicting orders laid upon Mr. Romsey and Captain Belper by Lord Lionel. He commanded them to indulge any reasonable wish their charge might express; he warned them to teach my lord Duke to study Economy, and on no account to keep him short of money; he forbade them to coddle him, but instructed them to discover the name and direction of the best doctor in any town they might chance to visit, never to allow my lord to play tennis or to ride after dinner, or to neglect to change his clothes after taking exercise. They were to encourage him to mingle freely in society, but they were to remove instantly from any town in which he seemed to be in danger of forming acquaintances not of the highest ton. He was to be initiated into the mysteries of gambling, but kept away from the Palais Royale. They were to remember that he was not a schoolboy but a young man; and they were to keep his lordship informed of every detail of their tour.

On the whole, reflected the Duke, they had not managed so very ill. Mr. Romsey had been the more zealous to conform to my lord’s instructions, but Captain Belper had been the better guide for a young gentleman setting foot on a foreign shore for the first time. And since they were mutually antagonistic, and very jealous of each other besides, their charge had not experienced much difficulty in winning the support of one of them when he wished to run counter to the other’s judgment.

Upon his return from his travels, the Duke had been a good deal taken aback by his uncle’s proposal to install Mr. Romsey as Chaplain at Sale. He did not dislike his tutor, but he had certainly hoped to be rid of him at last, and had supposed that one of the many livings in his gift would be bestowed on him. But Lord Lionel said that none of these was vacant, and that when old Mr. Gunnerside, who had been Chaplain for so many years, had died, he had purposely kept the post free, so that Romsey might fill it in reward for the years of his faithful services. “You would not wish to be ungrateful, Gilly,” had said his lordship.

No, Gilly had not wished to be ungrateful, and Mr. Romsey had got his Chaplaincy, and perhaps, in the course of a few more years, he might forget that his patron had once been his pupil. “For God’s sake, Adolphus, give that prosy old fool a set-down!” had begged his cousin Gideon.

But the Duke did not like giving set-downs to persons who wished him nothing but good, and had too much sensibility to be anything but courteous to those whose situation in life obliged them to accept without retort the snubs of their patrons.

“Adolphus, you cannot continue to employ such an antiquated valet as Nettlebed!” expostulated Gideon. “Pension him off, child, pension him off!”

“I cannot!” said the Duke despairingly. “It would break his heart!”

“Can you never bring yourself to hurt anyone’s feelings, my little one?” asked Gideon, with his crooked smile.

“Not the feelings of people who are attached to me,” answered Gilly simply.

“Then there is no hope for you!” said his cousin.

Gilly was unhappily inclined to believe him.

And now it appeared that there was another person to be added to the list of those whose feelings the Duke could not bring himself to wound. He did not know whether his intended bride was fond of him, but she was gentle, and shy, and, if his uncle were to be believed, she was depending upon him to make her a Duchess. The Duke had not been made a member of various clubs, and participated in a London season, without assimilating certain social facts. He had very little doubt that Lady Harriet’s chances of securing him for a husband were being freely betted upon at White’s, and to blast all her hopes, to set her up to be the butt of every ill-natured wit in town, would, he realized, be conduct wholly unbefitting a gentleman.

His mood of dejection deepened. Lying back in one corner of his chaise, his eyes on the bobbing forms of the postilions, he tried to think about Lady Harriet, and found it difficult. She had been so very correctly brought-up, had been of late years so zealously chaperoned, that he could not feel that he knew very much about her. There had been a great deal of intercourse between his family and hers; she had very often stayed at Sale Park, or at Cheyney, his house near Bath; and when they had been children he had liked her very well—better, in fact, than the more assertive children of his acquaintance. He still liked her very well, but the easy intercourse they had once enjoyed had latterly dwindled, perhaps from his own consciousness of the future laid down for them both, perhaps from the lady’s increasing shyness. He had squired her to the Opera, and danced with her at Almack’s; he found it easier to talk to her than to any other lady of his acquaintance; but she was not the bride of his independent choice, and although he had no very clear idea of what this imaginary damsel might be like, he felt sure that she did not resemble poor little Harriet.

But since he knew, naturally, that he must marry a lady of impeccable lineage, he was forced to own that Harriet would suit him decidedly better than any other marriageable young female of his set. Only it was all very dull; and without having the least ambition to many to disoblige his family, as the saying was, he did wish that he could have found a wife for himself, and that not a lady whom he had known from his cradle.

He wondered what it would have been like not to have been born in the purple, but to have been some quite unimportant person—not of too lowly a degree, of course, for that would certainly have been uncomfortable. He might have been obliged to live in Thatch End Cottages, for instance, with a leaking roof; or have been snapped up by the press gang; or even, perhaps (since he had always been undersized) have become the slave of a chimney-sweep. It was undoubtedly better to be the seventh Duke of Sale than a sweep’s apprentice, but he was much inclined to think that to have been plain Mr. Dash, of Nowhere in Particular, would have been preferable to either of these callings.

He began to picture the life of plain Mr. Dash, and was still lost in a pleasant, if slightly ill-informed, reverie when his chaise swept into the forecourt of his house in Curzon Street.

He came down to earth with a thud. Mr. Dash inhabited one of those cosy little terrace houses in a quiet corner of the town, and when he returned to his dwelling after a convivial evening spent with his cronies, playing French hazard, and getting his feet wet, he let himself into his house with his own key, and found no one at all who cared a button where he had been, or what he had been doing. None of his servants had ever known his father. In fact, he had very few servants: just a cook, and a housemaid or two, supposed the Duke, and—stretching a point—possibly a groom to look after his horses. Stewards, butlers, footmen, and valets were encumbrances unknown to Mr. Dash. Nor had he any relatives. Or had he one or two cousins? The Duke could not make up his mind on this point, for although the right style of cousin would undoubtedly be a comfort to Mr. Dash, cousins carried uncles in their wake, and Mr. Dash had no uncles—not even an uncle who lived a very long way from London, and never stirred out of his own house. And, thought the Duke, warming to his theme, Mr. Dash had no Chaplain, and no agent; no tradition to uphold; no dignity to maintain.

It was at this moment that the Duke returned to earth. His chaise had drawn up, and he found himself looking, not at a cosy little house in a terrace, but at the imposing portico of Sale House. As he blinked at it, the great doors were opened by unseen hands, his butler’s portly form appeared; and two footmen and the porter came down the steps to open the door of the chaise, let down the steps, remove the rug from across his Grace’s knees, and assist his Grace to alight. They were followed by Mr. Chigwell, the steward, who kept a sharp-eye on their movements, and was the first to offer a respectful welcome to his Grace.

The Duke began to laugh.

The elder of the two footmen, who figured on Mr. Scriven’s account-books as “the Duke’s footman,” continued to stand with his arm crooked for his master to lean upon as he descended from the coach, and his face rigidly impassive; but the younger footman found the Duke’s low laughter so infectious that he so far forgot himself as to grin in sympathy. Mr. Chigwell, himself a trifle startled, made a mental note of this, and silently rehearsed the words of stern reproof he would presently utter.

The Duke picked up his ebony cane, ducked his head to avoid knocking his tall, curly-brimmed beaver against the roof of the chaise, and jumped lightly down, ignoring both the steps, and the proffered arm. Mr. Chigwell and the porter both surged forward to prevent a possible fall, uttering in shocked accents: “Your Grace!”

“Oh, don’t, pray!” besought the Duke, in a shaking voice. “You will set me off again!”