“Bring him in the morning,” said the Countess, after a moment’s thought.

“About two?”

“Oh no!  At eleven or so.  I am a very early person.  I get up at the screech of dawn.”

“Permit me to thank you on behalf of my friend as well as for myself,” said Mr. Barker, bending low over the dark lady’s hand as he took his departure.

“So glad to have seen you.  It is pleasant to meet a civilised countryman in these days.”

“It can be nothing to the pleasure of meeting a charming countrywoman,” replied Mr. Barker, and he glided from the room.

The dark lady stood for a moment looking at the door through which her visitor had departed.  It was almost nine o’clock by this time, and she rang for lights, subsiding into a low chair while the servant brought them.  The candles flickered in the light breeze that fanned fitfully through the room, and, finding it difficult to read, the Countess sent for Miss Skeat.

“What a tiny little world it is!” said Margaret, by way of opening the conversation.

Miss Skeat sat down by the table.  She was thin and yellow, and her bones were on the outside.  She wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and was well dressed, in plain black, with a single white ruffle about her long and sinewy neck.  She was hideous, but she had a certain touch of dignified elegance, and her face looked trustworthy and not unkind.

“Apropos of anything especial?” asked she, seeing that the Countess expected her to say something.

“Do you remember when I dropped my parasol at Heidelberg?”

“Perfectly,” replied Miss Skeat.

“And the man who picked it up, and who looked like Niemann in Lohengrin?”

“Yes, and who must have been a professor.  I remember very well.”

“A friend of mine brought a friend of his to see me this afternoon, and the man himself is coming to-morrow.”

“What is his name?” asked the lady-companion.

“I am sure I don’t know, but Mr. Barker says he is very eccentric.  He is very rich, and yet he lives in a garret in Heidelberg and wishes he were poor.”

“Are you quite sure he is in his right mind, dear Countess?”

Margaret looked kindly at Miss Skeat.  Poor lady! she had been rich once, and had not lived in a garret.  Money to her meant freedom and independence.  Not that she was unhappy with Margaret, who was always thoughtful and considerate, and valued her companion as a friend; but she would rather have lived with Margaret feeling it was a matter of choice and not of necessity, for she came of good Scottish blood, and was very proud.

“Oh yes!” answered the younger lady; “he is very learned and philosophical, and I am sure you will like him.  If he is at all civilised we will have him to dinner.”

“By all means,” said Miss Skeat with alacrity.  She liked intelligent society, and the Countess had of late indulged in a rather prolonged fit of solitude.  Miss Skeat took the last novel—­one of Tourgueneff’s—­from the table and, armed with a paper-cutter, began to read to her ladyship.