“No—­I know that,” said Barker gloomily.

“She will marry you out of hand after a three months’ engagement.  She will be married by Worth, and you will be married by Poole.  It will be very effective, you know.  No end of wedding presents, and acres of flowers.  And then you will start away on your tour, and be miserable ever after.”

“I am glad you have done,” was Barker’s comment.

“As for me,” said Claudius, “I am of course not acquainted with the peculiarities of American life, but I fancy the Duke is rather severe in his judgment.”

It was a mild protest against a wholesale condemnation of American marriages; but Barker and the Duke only laughed as if they understood each other, and Claudius had nothing more to say.  He mentally compared the utterances of these men, doubtless grounded on experience, with the formulas he had made for himself about women, and which were undeniably the outcome of pure theory.  He found himself face to face with the old difficulty, the apparent discord between the universal law and the individual fact.  But, on the other hand, he could not help comparing himself with his two companions.  It was not in his nature to think slightingly of other men, but he felt that they were of a totally different mould, besides belonging to a different race.  He knew that however much he might enjoy their society, they had nothing in common with him, and that it was only his own strange fortune that had suddenly transported him into the very midst of a sphere where such characters were the rule and not the exception.

The conversation languished, and Claudius left the Duke and Barker, and went towards his quarters.  It was a warm night for the Atlantic, and though there was no moon, the stars shone out brightly, their reflection moving slowly up and down the slopes of the long ocean swell.  Claudius walked aft, and was going to sit down for a few minutes before turning in, when he was suddenly aware of a muffled female figure leaning against the taffrail only a couple of paces from where he was.  In spite of the starlight he could not distinguish the person.  She was wrapped closely in a cloak and veil, as if fearing the cold.  As it must be one of the three ladies who constituted the party, Claudius naturally raised his cap, but fearing lest he had chanced on the Duke’s sister, or still worse, on Miss Skeat, he did not speak.  Before long, however, as he leaned against the side, watching the wake, the unknown remarked that it was a delightful night.  It was Margaret’s voice, and the deep musical tones trembled on the rise and fall of the waves, as if the sounds themselves had a distinct life and beating in them.  Did the dark woman know what magic lay in her most trivial words?  Claudius did not care a rush whether the night were beautiful or otherwise, but when she said it was a fine evening, it sounded as if she had said she loved him.

“I could not stay downstairs,” she said, “and so when the others went to bed I wrapped myself up and came here.  Is it not too wonderful?”