Towards evening, the Duke of Losas passed my hotel, and, seeing me at
the door, asked if I had read the manuscript.
'I thought it interesting,' I said, a little coldly, for, of course, I
knew no Englishman would have acted like Don Sebastian.
He shrugged his shoulders.
'It is not half so interesting as a good dinner.'
At these words I felt bound to offer him such hospitality as the hotel
afforded. I found him a very agreeable messmate. He told me the further
history of his family, which nearly became extinct at the end of the
last century, since the only son of the seventh duke had, unfortunately,
not been born of any duchess. But Ferdinand, who was then King of Spain,
was unwilling that an ancient family should die out, and was, at the
same time, sorely in want of money; so the titles and honours of the
house were continued to the son of the seventh duke, and King Ferdinand
built himself another palace.
'But now,' said my guest, mournfully shaking his head, 'it is finished.
My palace and a few acres of barren rock are all that remain to me of
the lands of my ancestors, and I am the last of the line.'
But I bade him not despair. He was a bachelor and a duke, and not yet
forty. I advised him to go to the United States before they put a duty
on foreign noblemen; this was before the war; and I recommended him to
take Maida Vale and Manchester on his way. Personally, I gave him a
letter of introduction to an heiress of my acquaintance at Hampstead;
for even in these days it is not so bad a thing to be Duchess of Losas,
and the present duke has no brother.