Moreover, a rector of the Anglican Church who has been in the foreign mission field is the kind of person from whom one can find out, more or less incidentally, how one should address and converse with a duke, and whether you call him, "Your Grace," or "His Grace," or just "Grace," or "Duke," or what.

All of which things would seem to a director of the People's Bank and the president of the Republican Soda Co.

so trivial in importance that he would scorn to ask about them.
So that was why Mr.Fyshe had asked Mr.Furlong to lunch with him, and to dine with him later on in the same day at the Mausoleum Club to meet the Duke of Dulham.

And Mr.Furlong, realizing that a clergyman must be all things to all men and not avoid a man merely because he is a duke, had accepted the invitation to lunch, and had promised to come to dinner, even though it meant postponing the Willing Workers' Tango Class of St.Asaph's until the following Friday.
Thus it had come about that Mr.Fyshe was seated at lunch, consuming a cutlet and a pint of Moselle in the plain downright fashion of a man so democratic that he is practically a revolutionary socialist, and doesn't mind saying so; and the young rector of St.Asaph's was sitting opposite to him in a religious ecstasy over a _salmi_ of duck.
"The Duke arrived this morning, did he not ?" said Mr.Furlong.
"From New York," said Mr.Fyshe.

"He is staying at the Grand Palaver.