“Of course,” said she, “they must do it.  It would be so unjust not to.”  She looked at Margaret with a bright smile, as if there was no such thing as injustice in the world.  But the Countess looked grave; and as she leaned back in her deep arm-chair by the window, with half-closed eyes, it was easy to see she was in trouble.  She needed help and sympathy and comfort.  She had never needed help before, and it was not a pleasant sensation to her; perhaps she was dissatisfied when she realised whose help of all others she would most gladly accept.  At least it would be most pleasant that he should offer it.  “He”—­has it come to that?  Poor Margaret!  If “he” represented a sorrow instead of a happiness, would you confide that too to Lady Victoria?  Or would you feel the least shadow of annoyance because you miss him to-day?  Perhaps it is only habit.  You have schooled yourself to believe you ought to do without him, and you fancy you ought to be angry with yourself for transgressing your rule.  But what avails your schooling against the little god?  He will teach you a lesson you will not forget.  The day is sinking.  The warm earth is drinking out its cup of sunlight to the purple dregs thereof.  There is great colour in the air, and the clouds are as a trodden wine-press in the west.  The old sun, the golden bowl of life, is touching earth’s lips, and soon there will be none of the wine of light left in him.  She will drink it all.  Yet your lover tarries, Margaret, and comes not.

Margaret and Lady Victoria agreed they would dine together.  Indeed, Margaret had a little headache, for she was weary.  They would dine together, and then read something in the evening—­quite alone; and so they did.  It was nearly nine o’clock when the servant announced Claudius and the Duke.  The latter, of course, knew nothing about Margaret’s troubles, and was in high spirits.  As for Claudius, his momentary excitement, caused by Mr. Screw’s insinuations, had long since passed away, and he was as calm as ever, meditating a graphic description of his day’s excursion to Greenwood Cemetery for Margaret’s benefit.  It was a lugubrious subject, but he well knew how to make his talk interesting.  It is the individual, not the topic, that makes the conversation; if a man can talk well, graveyards are as good a subject as the last novel, and he will make tombstones more attractive than scandal.

No one could have told from Claudius’s appearance or conversation that night that there was anything in the world to cloud his happiness.  He talked to the woman he loved with a serene contempt for everything else in the world—­a contempt, too, which was not assumed.  He was perfectly happy for the nonce, and doubly so in that such a happy termination to a very long day was wholly unexpected.  He had thought that he should find the party gone from New York on his return from Greenwood, and this bit of good luck seemed to have fallen to him out of a clear sky.  Margaret was glad to see him too;