The physician began his methodical examination exactly as if he were dealing with an ordinary patient. He weighed the Cabinet Minister, he measured him, he took his pulse and temperature, and sounded his heart and lungs. As test after test was applied the examiner did not conceal his interest and satisfaction, and at the close of the ordeal his manner became almost enthusiastic. “I can congratulate you,” he reported, “on being an almost perfect life--I may say, a remarkable life. Do you know that you are as nearly as possible a normal man?” The twelfth subject of the Queen looked ever so slightly disconcerted by the compliment. “You don’t understand, I see,” said Vanbrugh. “I must explain to you that scientific anthropologists have arrived at certain standards of bodily proportion, of the energy of the vital functions, and so on, which they have fixed as constituting the norm of humanity--that is to say, the perfect balance which ought to be found in every member of the species. The normal man is therefore a scientific abstraction: he is the imaginary type with which actual individuals are to be compared, and to which they should as far as possible conform. Now I find that you fulfil to an extraordinary degree every requirement which anthropological science has laid down for the species. You are, therefore, a normal man--the first I have ever been fortunate enough to come across.” The Duke of Trent tried to persuade himself that this was a flattering report, though in his ear the word “normal” sounded disagreeably like commonplace. “At all events, you are satisfied?” he asked. “I am more than satisfied so far. Now as to your family history----” For the first time a misgiving stole into the Duke’s mind, as he remembered Lord Alexander Stuart’s career. Surely this scientific inquisitor was not going to visit the sins of the father on the son, as his words foreboded? “Is your father living?” “No; I have the title,” the Duke reminded him. “True. At what age did he die?” “As far as I can recollect, at about thirty-eight or forty. I could easily ascertain.” “That may not be necessary. What did he die of?” The Duke’s cheeks burned. But he saw the folly of temporizing with a man like Vanbrugh. The story of Lord Alexander was perfectly well known in London. “Of _delirium tremens_, I am afraid.” Sir Bernard’s eyebrows lifted, and he shot a painful glance at the unfortunate son. “Your mother,” he hastened to say, “I know is alive. What is her state of health?” The Duke was glad to be able to reply altogether satisfactorily. He was beginning to breathe again when the scientist put the fatal question: “Have you any brothers or sisters?” “One brother.” As the admission escaped him all his old bitterness against his junior returned with ten-fold force. “Living?” “Yes, he is living.” “Surely I have heard something about him lately?” Sir Bernard said reflectively. “What is he called?” “Lord Alistair Stuart.”