Barker looked at the Doctor steadily, and smiled.

“Do you really think so?  Do you imagine that if you would do the work she would have any objection whatever to giving you the benefit of her views and experience?”

“In other words,” Claudius said, “you are referring to the possibility of a journey to America, in the company of the charming woman to whom you have introduced me.”

“You are improving, Professor; that is exactly what I mean.  Let us adjourn from the bowers of Baden to the wind-swept cliffs of Newport—­we can be there before the season is over.  But I forgot, you thought you would not like Newport.”

“I am not sure,” said Claudius.  “Do you think the Countess would go?”

“If you will call there assiduously, and explain to her the glorious future that awaits your joint literary enterprise, I believe she might be induced.”

Claudius went to bed that night with his head full of this new idea, just as Mr. Barker had intended.  He dreamed he was writing with the Countess, and travelling with her and talking to her; and he woke up with the determination that the thing should be done if it were possible.  Why not?  She often made a trip to her native country, as she herself had told him, and why should she not make another?  For aught he knew, she might be thinking of it even now.

Then he had a reaction of despondency.  He knew nothing of her ties or of her way of life.  A woman in her position probably made engagements long beforehand, and mapped out her year among her friends.  She would have promised a week here and a month there in visits all over Europe, and the idea that she would give up her plans and consent, at the instance of a two days’ acquaintance, to go to America was preposterous.  Then again, he said to himself, as he came back from his morning walk in the woods, there was nothing like trying.  He would call as soon as it was decent after the dinner, and he would call again.

Mr. Barker was a man in whom a considerable experience of men supplemented a considerable natural astuteness.  He was not always right in the judgments he formed of people and their aims, but he was more often right than wrong.  His way of dealing with men was calculated on the majority, and he knew that there are no complete exceptions to be found in the world’s characters.  But his standard was necessarily somewhat low, and he lacked the sympathetic element which enables one high nature to understand another better than it understands its inferiors.  Barker would know how to deal with the people he met; Claudius could understand a hero if he ever met one, but he bore himself toward ordinary people by fixed rules of his own, not caring or attempting to comprehend the principles on which they acted.