The Duke had been quite right about his appetite. He could have contented himself with a steak, but now he might as well have a nice little dinner, and play with it for an hour or so. He had fricasseed sole, roast lamb, duck and green peas, and cheese fondu. He had a pint bottle of sound claret, and maraschino to finish with; and all the time there was the freshness from the river streaming through the window, and the soft beat of paddle-wheels and the swirl of cool waters at the prows of steamers and of barges.

Yes, this was much better than working seven, eight, or ten hours a day in the top of that dull house in Long Acre, where the smell of varnish, turpentine, and shavings of the factory blended not pleasantly with the dull damp odour native to the street outside. And of those ten hours a day what had come? On an average not more than a dozen shillings a day. A dozen shillings a day! Fancy a dozen shillings a day for all that work--all that plotting and planning, and weighing and considering; and then the hateful slavery of having to bend over a desk until he grew sick of pens, ink, and paper, as a prisoner grows sick of his cell! And then, after the weary writing, the reading over, and scoring out and writing in. After this came the proofs, and after the proofs came the printed and published sheet, and the two blunders or infelicities on each page, or the five in each column, which had after all escaped him! Oh, it was a cruel life now to look back upon; but he had not felt it to be so at the time.

Now here he was, at the pleasant open window. He had had an excellent simple little dinner, and he was smoking a cigar which cost as much as all the bird's-eye he had used in a week of the old time! Every day he could do what he liked, go where he liked, buy what he liked. In a few days, as soon as the novelty had worn off May, he should make her go with him everywhere in the neighbourhood of London. He should map out the little trips they should take. She should travel in the softest of carriages, and taste the daintiest fare, and see the fairest sights. It would be so good to lean back and watch the delight in her bright face, as she came upon some beauty of wood or glen or river! It would be such a happiness to him to see her resting on the most luxurious cushions art could devise! It would be so good to see the servants at every place they stopped eager to anticipate her lightest wish! It would be delightful!

And now he should not abandon writing altogether. Of course he should never run a story in any of the papers again. But he would write a novel in time. He need be in no hurry about it. He would have excellent opportunities of going about and picking up local colour and character. As far as he knew, no English duke had ever written a novel. It would be a novelty to find three volumes at Mudie's and Smith's by the Duke of Shropshire. There would be an enormous demand for it.

Fortunately he had not sold the copyright of anything he had written, so that no one could now advertise a book of his without his consent. He had sold the three-volume right of "The Duke of Fenwick" to Blantyre and Ferguson; but they had no power to put "by the Duke of Shropshire" on the title-page; and even though all the world and his wife knew "Charles Augustus Cheyne," author of "The Duke of Fenwick," was now Duke of Shropshire, the effect was not nearly so striking as if the page showed the title he now bore.

Ah, it was pleasant to be rich at last! He had often dreamed and written of great riches, but never of such a colossal fortune as he now owned. He was not crushed by it, and yet he felt he should have great difficulty in disposing of his revenue. There were, of course, four or five houses to keep in order and readiness; and there were subscriptions and donations to be paid, as a matter of routine. But after this had all been done scarcely any impression had been created on the enormous income. He had no taste for horses or gambling, but he supposed it would be necessary for him to rely on some such means for spending his money.

The seventh Duke had managed to get through his income, but it was by means which the ninth would not follow. He did not believe in keeping up five or six huge establishments, as though a great noble lived in each, and for no other reason than that they might be lent to friends. He was safe from the temptation of lending his houses to any of his old friends, for not one of all the people he knew could afford the mere tips to the servants.

Anyway, it was a very pleasant thing to sit there at ease, smoking the very best cigar, looking at the broad river, and knowing that one's pockets were full of money, and that the moment these pockets were empty they might be filled again and again and again as often as one liked.

A cab was called for him, and he drove the whole way to Long Acre. It was dusk as he came, and that was a mercy, for he passed through repulsive ways and repulsive people. But still the surroundings had no power to depress him; and although he did feel a sense of relief when he found himself crossing Waterloo Bridge, he was not sorry for his drive. When a man of good constitution and equable mind is happy and on excellent terms with himself and the world, there is something cheering and invigorating in the contemplation of large masses' of people, no matter of what social standing those people may be.

When he got to Long Acre it was dark. He ran up the long-familiar stairs, and found himself in the old rooms. They had, by his order, been altered greatly since he had last seen them. All the old furniture had been removed, and what had been his sitting room had been converted into a dining-room, and what had been his bedroom into a smoking-room. Two more rooms at the opposite side of the landing had been taken by him. The smaller of these was lined with hat and coat pegs, and the larger discharged the joint offices of larder, wine-cellar, and butler's pantry. In the last room sat two waiters. A third servant took charge of the hat-pegs, and a fourth attended to the door downstairs. None of the men wore livery.

No one had come yet, and the host went into the smoking-room and sat down. He did not expect any man to be punctually there at nine o'clock, and some he did not expect until after the theatres. He had asked about twenty artists--actors, authors, musicians; and although he had got replies from only five, he fully expected all would come. He knew Bohemia seldom troubles itself to answer letters of that kind; it usually hates writing letters, but it comes. All those whom he had invited were old friends; and as he felt quite sure they were men enough to visit him in sickness or in strait, he was equally sure they were not cads enough to stay away in his prosperity.

He now sat thinking of all the dear old faces he should see, and all the kindly hands he should touch, before daylight. He was thinking of the words he should use in the little speech he intended making at some time of that evening.

He should tell them that, when he lived in these very rooms, a few weeks ago, the brougham of the seventh duke had been injured in Piccadilly while he (the speaker) was walking in Piccadilly; that the brougham was brought for repairs to Mr. Whiteshaw, the coach builder, who occupied the lower portion of that house in which they now found themselves; and that Mr. Whiteshaw had remarked to him the identity between the family name of the duke and his own. How he had thought nothing at all of that matter then; and how, if any carriage of the seventh or eighth duke now lay below, it was his (the speaker's), as the seventh duke left all his personal property, except a few money legacies to servants, to his son, the eighth duke, who died intestate, and whose heir-at-law he (the speaker) was.

He would tell them that he never should be able to forget that strange coincidence about the brougham; and that, in order to mark it so that it might always be suggested to their memories, if their memory of this night grew dim, he would arrange that the Cheyne brougham, that day injured, should for ever be kept downstairs; and that the old friends of Charles Augustus Cheyne should always be able to meet one another, and often meet himself, up there where they now sat; and that his object in asking them to come and drink a glass of wine with him and smoke a pipe with him this evening was that they, might found the Anerly Club, in honour of the discovery made by Graham at that village. He would propose their first president should be Edward Graham. He would give them the rooms and pay four servants. All other details they might arrange among themselves, except two: first, that all the men who were now there, or had been asked, to come and could not, should be members of that club, without power to add to their number.

When he came to consider the second condition, he arranged not only the substance of what he had to say, but the words as well.

"And, second, I intend making the bond between this club and me the closest of any but one. I desire that the one bond, which shall be closer than that with this club, may be associated with it, and that you will once give me the privilege of breaking my first condition, that is, when I am married, and propose that my wife may be made an honorary member."

At that moment someone entered the room. He looked up with a smile, thinking it was the first guest. It was the hall-porter, who held out a salver, saying:

"A letter for your grace,"

He took the letter, saw it was Marion's handwriting, and told the man to go.

He broke the envelope and read over the letter slowly twice. When he had considered awhile he went to a table where there were writing materials, and addressed a cover:

"To the First Man who comes to-night."

Then on a sheet of paper he wrote:

"I was the first in, and had been here some time, when I got a note by the last post. Must run away at once, but hope to be back in an hour. Don't wait for me. I am awfully sorry. Show all the fellows this, and tell them, as they will guess, that nothing but matter of the gravest moment could take me away under the circumstances.

"C. A. C."

He drove straight to Tenby Terrace. He ran up the steps, and, when Anne opened the door, asked impetuously:

"Is May in?" He forgot to say "Miss Durrant."

"Oh, a letter has just come saying she will not be back, and we don't know where she is gone to, sir."

Anne had forgotten to call him even "my lord."

That night the members of the new Anerly Club saw nothing of its founder.