“Not exactly the same thing,” said Claudius; “you knew you were going to have it.”

“No,” put in Barker.  “Having money and being likely to have it are about the same as far as spending it goes.  Particularly in England.”

“I believe the whole thing is a fraud,” said the Duke in a tone of profound reflection.  “Never had a cent before I came of age.  Seems to me I never had any since.”

“Spent it all in water-melon and fire-crackers, celebrating your twenty-first birthday, I suppose,” suggested Barker.

“Spent it some way, at all events,” replied the Duke.  “Now, here,” he continued, addressing Barker, “is a man who actually has it, who never expected to have it, who has got it in hard cash, and in the only way in which it is worth having—­by somebody else’s work.  Query—­what will Claudius do with his millions?” Exhausted by this effort of speech, the Duke puffed his tobacco in silence, waiting for an answer.  Claudius laughed, but said nothing.

“I know of one thing he will do with his money.  He will get married,” said Barker.

“For God’s sake, Claudius,” said the Duke, looking serious, “don’t do that.”

“I don’t think I will,” said Claudius.

“I know better,” retorted Barker, “I am quite sure I shall do it myself some day, and so will you.  Do you think if I am caught, you are going to escape?”

The Duke thought that if Barker knew the Duchess, he might yet save himself.

“You are no chicken, Barker, and perhaps you are right.  If they catch you they can catch anybody,” he said aloud.

“Well, I used to say the mamma was not born who could secure me.  But I am getting old, and my nerves are shaken, and a secret presentiment tells me I shall be bagged before long, and delivered over to the tormentors.”

“I pity you if you are,” said the Duke.  “No more poker, and very little tobacco then.”

“Not as bad as that.  You are as much married as most men, but it does not interfere with the innocent delights of your leisure hours, that I can see.”

“Ah, well—­you see—­I am pretty lucky.  The Duchess is a domestic type of angel.  Likes children and bric-a-brac and poultry, and all those things.  Takes no end of trouble about the place.”

“Why should not I marry the angelic domestic—­the domestic angel, I mean?”

“You won’t, though.  Doesn’t grow in America.  I know the sort of woman you will get for your money.”

“Give me an idea.”  Barker leaned back in his chair till it touched the door of the cabin, and rolled his cigar in his mouth.

“Of course she will be the rage for the time.  Eighteen or nineteen summers of earthly growth, and eighteen or nineteen hundred years of experience and calculation in a former state.”

“Thanks, that sounds promising.  Claudius, this is intended for your instruction.”

“You will see her first at a ball, with a cartload of nosegays slung on her arms, and generally all over her.  That will be your first acquaintance; you will never see the last of her.”