“Parfaitement, Madame.  I will speak with Monsieur Veelees.”  And she vanished.

It was a bright November morning, and though there had been a slight frost daring the night, it was fast vanishing before the sun.  Margaret went to the window and breathed the cool air.  An indescribable longing seized her to be out, among trees and plants and fresh growing things—­to blow away the dark dreams of the night, the visions of Barker and Screw, and of the ballroom, and of that detestable Japanese boudoir.  She hurried her toilet in a manner that completely aroused Clementine’s vigilant suspicion.

“Helas,” Clementine used to say to Willis the Duke’s servant, “Je ne lui ai jamais connu d’amant.  I had pourtant much hoped of Monsieur Clodiuse.”  But she never ventured such remarks when old Vladimir was at hand.

When the Countess was dressed she went out into her little drawing-room, and found the Duke looking more sunburnt and healthy than ever, though a trifle thinner.  The rough active Western life always agreed with him.  He came forward with a bright smile to meet her.

“Upon my word, how well you look!” he exclaimed as he shook hands; and indeed she was beautiful to see, for if the sleepless night had made her pale, the good news of Claudius’s coming had brought the fire to her eyes.

“Do I?” said she.  “I am glad; and you look well too.  Your run on the prairies has done you good.  Come,” said she, leading him to the window, “it is a beautiful day.  Let us go out.”

“By all means:  but first I have some good news for you.  Fitzdoggin has telegraphed me that Claudius—­I mean,” he said, interrupting himself and blushing awkwardly, “I mean that it is all right, you know.  They have arranged all your affairs beautifully.”  Margaret looked at him curiously a moment while he spoke.  Then she recognised that the Duke must have had a hand in the matter, and spoke very gratefully to him, not mentioning that she had received news direct, for she did not wish to spoil his pleasure in being the first to tell her.  To tell the truth, the impulsive Englishman was rather in doubt whether he had not betrayed the Doctor’s secret, and seemed very little inclined to say anything more about it.

“I wish,” she said at last, “that we could ride this morning.  I have not been on a horse for ever so long, and I want the air.”

“By Jove,” cried the Duke, overjoyed at the prospect of breaking an interview which seemed likely to lead him too far, “I should think so.  I will send and get some horses directly.  The very thing, by Jove!” And he went to the door.

“How are you going to get anything fit to ride in New York, at such short notice?” asked Margaret, laughing at his impetuosity.