“I have not been over since the autumn,” he said, “and I really ought to go.”

“When will you start?” asked Margaret.

“I meant to go next month.  I think I will take the yacht.”

“I wonder you do not always do that.  It is so much pleasanter, and you feel as if you never had gone out of your own house.”

“The fact is,” said he, plunging, “I am going to take my sister, and I would like to have a little party.  Will you not join us yourself, Countess, and Miss Skeat?”

“Really, Duke, you are very kind.  But I was not thinking of going home just yet.”

“It is a long time since you have been there.  Not since—­”

“Yes, I know,” said Margaret gravely.  “And perhaps that is why I hesitate to go now.”

“But would it not be different if we all went together?  Do you not think it would be much nicer?”

“Did you say your sister was going?”

“Oh yes, she will certainly go.”

“Well,” said the Countess after a moment’s thought, “I will not say just yet.  I need not make up my mind yet; need I?  Then I will take a few days to think of it.”

“I am sure you will decide to join us,” said the Duke pressingly.

“Perhaps I ought to go, and it is so kind of you, really, to give me such a delightful chance.”  She had a presentiment that before long she would he on her way to join the yacht, though at first sight it seemed rather improbable, for, as Claudius had guessed, she had a great many engagements for visits.  If any one had suggested to her that morning that she might make a trip to America, she would have said it was quite impossible.  The idea of the disagreeable journey, the horror of being cast among an immense crowd of unknown travellers; or, still worse, of being thrown into the society of some chance acquaintance who would make the most of knowing her—­it was all sufficient, even in the absence of other reasons, to deter her from undertaking the journey.  But in the party proposed by the Duke it was all very different.  He was a gentleman, besides being a peer, and he was an old friend.  His sister was a kind-hearted gentlewoman of narrow views but broad humanity; and not least, the yacht was sure to be perfection, and she would be the honoured guest.  She would be sorry to leave Baden for some reasons; she liked Claudius very much, and he made her feel that she was leading an intellectual life.  But she had not entirely realised him yet.  He was to her always the quiet student whom she had met in Heidelberg, and during the month past the feeling she entertained for him had developed more in the direction of intellectual sympathy than of personal friendship.  She would not mind parting with him any more than she would mind laying down an interesting book before she had half read it.  Still that was something, and the feeling had weight.

“Miss Skeat,” she said, when they were alone, “you have never been in America?”