“I want you to explain to me what they are trying to do to make Dr. Claudius give up his property,” said Margaret, who looked pale and beautiful in a morning garment of nondescript shape and of white silken material.  The Duke was sitting by the window, watching a couple of men preparing to get into a trim dogcart.  To tell the truth, the dogcart and the horse were the objects of interest.  His Grace was not aware that the young men were no less personages than young Mr. Hannibal Q. Sniggins and young Mr. Orlando Van Sueindell, both of New York, sons of the “great roads.”  Either of these young gentlemen could have bought out his Grace; either of them would have joyfully licked his boots; and either of them would have protested, within the sacred precincts of their gorgeous club in New York, that he was a conceited ass of an Englishman.  But his Grace did not know this, or he would certainly have regarded them with more interest.  He was profoundly indifferent to the character of the people with whom he had to do, whether they were catalogued in the “book of snobs” or not.  It is generally people who are themselves snobs who call their intimates by that offensive epithet, attributing to them the sin they fall into themselves.  The Duke distinguished between gentlemen and cads, when it was a question of dining at the same table, but in matters of business he believed the distinction of no importance.  He came to America for business purposes, and he took Americans as he found them.  He thought they were very good men of business, and when it came to associating with them on any other footing, he thought some of them were gentlemen and some were not—­pretty much as it is everywhere else.  So he watched the young men getting into their dogcart, and he thought the whole turn-out looked “very fit.”

“Really,” he began, in answer to the Countess’s question, “—­upon my word, I don’t know much about it.  At least, I suppose not.”

“Oh, I thought you did,” said Margaret, taking up a book and a paper-cutter.  “I thought it must be something rather serious, or he would not have been obliged to go abroad to get papers about it.”

“Well, you know, after all, he—­aw—­” the Duke reddened—­“he—­well yes, exactly so.”

“Yes?” said Margaret interrogatively, expecting something more.

“Exactly,” said the Duke, still red, but determined not to say anything.  He had not promised Claudius not to say he could have vouched for him, had the Doctor stayed; but he feared that in telling Margaret this, he might be risking the betrayal of Claudius’s actual destination.  It would not do, however.

“I really do not understand just what you said,” said Margaret, looking at him.

“Ah! well, no.  I daresay I did not express myself very clearly.  What was your question, Countess?”

“I asked who it was who was making so much trouble for the Doctor;” said Margaret calmly.

“Oh, I was sure I could not have understood you.  It’s the executors and lawyer people, who are not satisfied about his identity.  It’s all right, though.”