Carl eyed the British nobleman with some curiosity.  Evidently Lord Bedford was no dude.  His suit was of rough cloth and ill-fitting.  He was barely five feet six inches in height, with features decidedly plain, but with an absence of pretension that was creditable to him, considering that he was really what he purported to be.  Stuyvesant walked by his side, nearly a head taller, and of more distinguished bearing, though of plebeian extraction.  His manner was exceedingly deferential, and he was praising England and everything English in a fulsome manner.

“Yes, my lord,” Carl overheard him say, “I have often thought that society in England is far superior to our American society.”

“Thanks, you are very kind,” drawled the nobleman, “but really I find things very decent in America, upon my word.  I had been reading Dickens’s ‘Notes’ before I came over and I expected to find you very uncivilized, and—­almost aboriginal; but I assure you I have met some very gentlemanly persons in America, some almost up to our English standard.”

“Really, my lord, such a tribute from a man in your position is most gratifying.  May I state this on your authority?”

“Yes, I don’t mind, but I would rather not get into the papers, don’t you know.  You are not a—­reporter, I hope.”

“I hope not,” said Mr. Stuyvesant, in a lofty tone.  “I am a scion of one of the oldest families in New York.  Of course I know that social position is a very different thing here from what it is in England.  It must be a gratifying thing to reflect that you are a lord.”

“Yes, I suppose so.  I never thought much about it.”

“I should like so much to be a lord.  I care little for money.”

“Then, by Jove, you are a remarkable man.”

“In comparison with rank, I mean.  I would rather be a lord with a thousand pounds a year than a rich merchant with ten times as much.”

“You’ll find it very inconvenient being a lord on a thousand; you might as well be a beggar.”

“I suppose, of course, high rank requires a large rent roll.  In fact, a New York gentleman requires more than a trifle to support him.  I can’t dress on less than two hundred pounds a year.”

“Your American tailors are high-priced, then?”

“Those that I employ; we have cheap tailors, of course, but I generally go to Bell.”

Mr. Stuyvesant was posing as a gentleman of fashion.  Carl, who followed at a little distance behind the pair, was much amused by his remarks, knowing what he did about him.

“I think a little of going to England in a few months,” continued Stuyvesant.

“Indeed!  You must look me up,” said Bedford, carelessly.

“I should, indeed, be delighted,” said Stuyvesant, effusively.

“That is, if I am in England.  I may be on the Continent, but you can inquire for me at my club—­the Piccadilly.”

“I shall esteem it a great honor, my lord.  I have a penchant for good society.  The lower orders are not attractive to me.”