Truly, a happy people, these American aristocrats.

CHAPTER XIX.

When Margaret awoke the next morning her first impulse was to go away for a time.  She was disgusted with New York, and desired nothing so much as the sensation of being free from Mr. Barker.  A moment, however, sufficed to banish any such thoughts.  In the first place, if she were away from the metropolis it would take just so many hours longer for the Doctor’s letters to reach her.  There had been a lacuna in the correspondence of late, and it seemed to her that the letters she had received were always dated some days before the time stamped on the Heidelberg postmark.  He spoke always of leaving very soon; but though he said many loving and tender things, he was silent as to his own doings.  She supposed he was occupied with the important matter he described as the “other reason,” and so in the two or three short notes she wrote him she abstained from questioning any more.

Furthermore, she reflected that however much she might wish to be away, it was most emphatically not the thing to do.  On the whole, she would stay where she was.

She was roused from her reverie by Clementine, who entered in a halo of smiles, as though she were the bearer of good news.  In the first place she had a telegram, which proved to be from Claudius, dated Berlin, and simply announcing the fact that he would sail at once.  Margaret could hardly conceal her great satisfaction, and the colour came so quickly to her face as she read the flimsy bit of paper from the cable office that Clementine made the most desperate efforts to get possession of it, or at least to see the signature.  But Margaret kept it under her pillow for half an hour, and then burned it carefully by the taper, to Clementine’s inexpressible chagrin.

Meanwhile, however, there were other news in the wind, and when the artful Frenchwoman had succeeded in opening the window just so that a ray of light should fall on madam’s face, she fired her second shot.

“Monsieur le Duc is of return, Madame,” she said, suddenly turning towards her mistress.

“The Duke?” repeated Margaret innocently.  “When did he come?”

“Ah, Madame,” said the maid, disappointed at having produced so little effect, “it is precisely what I do not know.  I come from meeting Monsieur Veelees upon the carrefour.  He has prayed me to present the compliments of Monsieur le Duc and to ask at what hour Madame la Comtesse would be in disposition to see him.”

“Ah, very well,” said the Countess.  “I will get up, Clementine.”

“Si tot, Madame? it is yet very morning,” argued the girl with a little show of polite surprise.

“That is indifferent.  Go, Clementine, and tell Monsieur le Duc I will see him at once.”

“At once, Madame?  I run,” said Clementine, going slowly to the door.

“Enfin—­when I am dressed.  Don’t you understand?” said Margaret impatiently.