to learn some details concerning the Doctor’s departure, from which again he argued that Claudius had not taken her into his confidence.  The hypothesis that she might be willing to make an effort with him for Claudius’s justification Mr. Barker dismissed as improbable.  And he was right.  He waited, therefore, for her to broach the subject, and confined himself, as they drove along, to remarks about the people they passed, the doings of the Newport summer, concerning which he had heard all the gossip during the last few hours, the prospect of Madame Patti in opera during the coming season, horses, dogs, and mutual friends—­all the motley array of subjects permissible, desultory, and amusing.  Suddenly, as they bowled out on an open road by the sea, Margaret began.

“Why has Dr. Claudius gone abroad,” she asked, glancing at Barker’s face, which remained impenetrable as ever.  Barker changed his hold on the reins, and stuck the whip into the bucket by his side before he answered.

“They say he has gone to get himself sworn to,” he said rather slowly, and with a good show of indifference.

“I cannot see why that was necessary,” answered Margaret calmly “It seems to me we all knew him very well.”

“Oh, nobody can understand lawyers,” said Barker, and was silent, knowing how strong a position silence was, for she could know nothing more about Claudius without committing herself to a direct question.  Barker was in a difficult position.  He fully intended later to hint that Claudius might never return at all.  But he knew too much to do anything of the kind at present, when the memory of the Doctor was fresh in the Countess’s mind, and when, as he guessed, he himself was not too high in her favour.  He therefore told a bit of the plain truth which could not be cast in his teeth afterwards, and was silent.

It was a good move, and Margaret was fain to take to some other subject of conversation, lest the pause should seem long.  They had not gone far before the society kaleidoscope was once more in motion, and Barker was talking his best.  They rolled along, passing most things on the road, and when they came to a bit of hill, he walked his horses, on pretence of keeping them cool, but in reality to lengthen the drive and increase his advantage, if only by a minute and a hairbreadth.  He could see he was amusing her, as he drew her away from the thing that made her heavy, and sketched, and crayoned, and photographed from memory all manner of harmless gossip—­he took care that it should be harmless—­and such book-talk as he could command, with such a general sprinkling of sentimentalism, ready made and easy to handle, as American young men affect in talking to women.