Margaret had become interested in spite of herself, though she had preserved the constrained manner she had first assumed.  Now, however, as Claudius turned his flashing blue eyes to hers, she understood that she had allowed the conversation to go far enough, and she marvelled that on the very day when she was trying to be most unapproachable he should have said more to show what was next his heart than ever before.  She did not know enough of exceptional natures like his to be aware that a touch of the curb is the very thing to rouse the fierce blood.  True, he spoke generally, and even argumentatively, and his deep voice was calm enough, but there was a curious light in his eyes that dazzled her even in the mid-day sun, and she looked away.

“I am not sure I agree with you,” she said, “but you put it very clearly.  Shall we go on reading?”

Claudius was some time in finding his place in the open book, and then went on.  Again he misunderstood her, for though he could not remember saying anything he regretted, he fancied she had brought the conversation to a somewhat abrupt close.  He read on, feeling very uncomfortable, and longing for one of those explanations that are impossible between acquaintances and emotional between lovers.  He felt also that if he ever spoke out and told her he loved her it would be in some such situation as the present.  Margaret let her needlework drop and leaned back in the long chair, staring at a very uninteresting-looking tree on the other side of the garden.  Claudius read in a steady determined tone, emphasising his sentences with care, and never once taking his eyes from the book.  At last, noticing how quietly he was doing his work, Margaret looked at him, not furtively or as by stealth, but curiously and thoughtfully.  He was good to look at, so strong and straight, even as he sat at ease with the book in his hand, and the quivering sunlight through the leaves played over his yellow beard and white forehead.  She knew well enough now that he admired her greatly, and she hoped it would not be very hard for him when she went away.  Somehow, he was still to her the professor, the student, quiet and dignified and careless of the world, as she had first known him.  She could not realise Claudius as a man of wealth and power, who was as well able to indulge his fancies as the Duke himself,—­perhaps more so, for the Duke’s financial affairs were the gossip of Europe, and always had been since he came of age.

Meanwhile the Doctor reached the end of the chapter, and there was a pause.  Neither spoke, and the silence was becoming awkward, when a servant came across the lawn announcing the Duke.

“Ask his Grace to come outside,” said Margaret, and the representative of the aristocracy was striding over the green, hat in hand, a moment afterwards.  Margaret put out her hand and Claudius rose.  Each felt that the deus ex machina had arrived, and that the subject of the yachting excursion would be immediately broached.