His Grace the Duke of Westerham stepped forward from the hearthrug, in the
middle of which he had been standing, and held out both his hands. His lips were
parted in a smile, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.
"My dear Andrew," he exclaimed, "it is delightful to see you. You seem to bring
the salt of the North Sea into our frowsy city."
Andrew grasped his friend's hands.
"I have been fishing with some of my men for three weeks," he said, "off the
Dogger Bank. The salt does cling to one, you know, and I suppose I am as black
The Duke sighed a little.
"My dear Andrew," he said, "you make one wonder whether it is worth while to
count for anything at all in the world. You represent the triumph of physical
fitness. You could break me, or a dozen like me, in your hands. You know what
the faddists of the moment say? They declare that brains and genius have had
their day--that the greatest man in the world nowadays is the strongest."
Andrew smiled as he settled down in the armchair which his friend had wheeled
towards him.
"You do not believe in your own doctrines," he remarked. "You would not part
with a tenth part of your brains for all my muscle."
The Duke paused to think.
"It is not only the muscle," he said. "It is this appearance of splendid physical
perfection. You have but to show yourself in a London drawing-room, and you
