“Of course,” she answered, “the system does not pretend to the beautiful, it only aspires to the practical.  If the woman is satisfied with her choice, domestic peace is assured.”  She laughed.

“Why cannot each satisfy himself or herself of the other?  Why cannot the choice be mutual?”

“It would take too long,” said she; and laughed again.

“Very long?” asked Claudius, trying not to let his voice change.  But it changed nevertheless.

“Generally very long,” she answered in a matter-of-fact way.

“Why should it?”

“Because neither women nor men are so easily understood as a chapter of philosophy,” said she.

“Is it not the highest pleasure in life, that constant, loving study of the one person one loves?  Is not every anticipated thought and wish a triumph more worth living for than everything else in the wide world?” He moved close to her side.  “Do you not think so too?” She said nothing.

“I think so,” he said.  “There is no pleasure like the pleasure of trying to understand what a woman wants; there is no sorrow like the sorrow of failing to do that; and there is no glory like the glory of success.  It is a divine task for any man, and the greatest have thought it worthy of them.”  Still she was silent; and so was he for a little while, looking at her side face, for she had thrown back the veil and her delicate profile showed clearly against the sea foam.

“Countess,” he said at last; and his voice came and went fitfully with the breeze—­“I would give my whole life’s strength and study for the gladness of foreseeing one little thing that you might wish, and of doing it for you.”  His hand stole along the taffrail till it touched hers, but he did not lift his fingers from the polished wood.

“Dr. Claudius, you would give too much,” she said; for the magic of the hour and place was upon her, and the Doctor’s earnest tones admitted of no laughing retort.  She ought to have checked him then, and the instant she had spoken she knew it; but before she could speak again he had taken the hand he was already touching between both of his, and was looking straight in her face.

“Margaret, I love you with all my soul and heart and strength.”  Her hand trembled in his, but she could not take it away.  Before she had answered he had dropped to his knee and was pressing the gloved fingers to his lips.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeated, and his strength was as the strength of ten in that moment.

“Dr. Claudius,” said she at last, in a broken and agitated way, “you ought not to have said this.  It was not right of you.”  She tried to loose her hand, but he rose to his feet still clasping it.

“Forgive me,” he said, “forgive me!” His face was almost luminously pale.  “All the ages cannot take from me this—­that I have told you.”