“Said she would take some days to make up her mind.  She wrote this the same evening I called, I am sure.  Just like a woman.”

“Well, I think it’s deuced lucky, anyhow,” said Barker.  “Did you tell her who was going?”

“I told her about my sister.  I have not mentioned you or your friend yet.  Of course I will do that as soon as I am sure of you both.”

“Well,” said Barker, “if you don’t mind, perhaps you might write a note to the Doctor.  He might be shy of accepting an invitation by word of mouth.  Do you mind?”

“Not in the least,” said the Englishman; “give me a rag of paper and a quill, and I’ll do it now.”

And he accordingly did it, and directed the invitation to Claudius, Phil.D., and Barker pushed it into the crack of the door leading to the apartment where the Doctor was sleeping, lest it should be forgotten.

The next morning Claudius appeared with the Duke’s note in his hand.

“What does this mean?” he asked.  “I hardly know him at all, and here he asks me to cross the Atlantic in his yacht.  I wish you would explain.”

“Keep your hair on, my young friend,” replied Mr. Barker jocosely.  “He has asked you and me because his party would not be complete without us.”

“And who are ’the party’?”

“Oh, very small.  Principally his sister, I believe.  Hold on though, Miss Skeat is going.”

“Miss Skeat?” Claudius anticipated some chaff from his friend, and knit his brows a little.

“Yes; Miss Skeat and the Countess; or, perhaps I should say the Countess and Miss Skeat.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Claudius, “any one else?”

“Not that I know of.  Will you go?”

“It is rather sudden,” said the Doctor reflectively.

“You must make up your mind one way or the other, or you will spoil the Duke’s arrangements.”

“Barker,” said Claudius seriously, “do you suppose the Countess knows who are going?”

“My dear boy,” replied the other, peeling a peach which he had impaled on a fork, “it is not likely the Duke would ask a lady to go with him without telling her who the men were to be.  Be calm, however; I have observed your habits, and in two hours and twenty-three minutes your mind will be at rest.”

“How so?”

“It is now thirty-seven minutes past nine.  Do you mean to say you have failed once for weeks past to be at the Countess’s as the clock strikes twelve?”

Claudius was silent.  It was quite true; he went there daily at the same hour; for, as appeared in the beginning of this tale, he was a regular man.  But he reflected just now that the Countess would not be likely to speak of the party unless she knew that he was to be one.  He had not accepted his invitation yet, and the Duke would certainly not take his acceptance as a foregone conclusion.  Altogether it seemed probable that he would be kept in suspense.  If he then accepted without being sure of the Countess, he was binding himself to leave her.  Claudius had many things to learn yet.