“I would certainly advise it, dear Countess.  You really ought to begin and see people in some way besides allowing them to call on you.  I think this solitude is affecting your spirits.”

“Oh no; I am very happy—­at least, as happy as I can be.  But we will have them to dinner.  When shall it be?”

“To-morrow is too soon.  Say Thursday, since you ask me,” said Miss Skeat.

“Very well.  Shall we read a little?” And Tourgueneff was put into requisition.

It was late in the afternoon when the Countess’s phaeton, black horses, black liveries, and black cushions, swept round a corner of the drive.  Claudius and Barker, in a hired carriage, passed her, coming from the opposite direction.  The four people bowed to each other—­the ladies graciously, the men with courteous alacrity.  Each of the four was interested in the others, and each of the four felt that they would all be thrown together in the immediate future.  There was a feeling among them that they had known each other a long time, though they were but acquaintances of to-day and yesterday.

“I have seldom seen anything more complete than that turn-out,” said Mr. Barker.  “The impression of mourning is perfect; it could not have been better if it had been planned by a New York undertaker.”

“Are New York undertakers such great artists?” asked Claudius.

“Yes; people get buried more profusely there.  But don’t you think it is remarkably fine?”

“Yes.  I suppose you are trying to make me say that the Countess is a beautiful woman,” answered Claudius, who was beginning to understand Barker.  “If that is what you want, I yield at once.  I think she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw.”

“Ah!—­don’t you think perhaps that Miss Skeat acts as an admirable foil?”

“Such beauty as that requires no foil.  The whole world is a foil to her.”

“Wait till you come to America.  I will show you her match in Newport.”

“I doubt it.  What is Newport?”

“Newport is the principal watering-place of our magnificent country.  It is Baden, Homburg, Bigorre, and Biarritz rolled into one.  It is a terrestrial paradise, a land of four-in-hands and houris and surf-bathing and nectar and ambrosia.  I could not begin to give you an idea of it; wait till you get there.”

“A society place, I suppose, then?” said Claudius, not in the least moved by the enthusiastic description.

“A society place before all things.  But you may have plenty of solitude if you like.”

“I hardly think I should care much for Newport,” said Claudius.

“Well, I like it very much.  My father has a place there, to which I take the liberty of inviting you for the season, whenever you make up your mind to enjoy yourself.”

“You are very good, I am sure; and if, as you say, I ever go to America, which seems in your opinion paramount to enjoying myself, I will take advantage of your kind invitation.”