Late on Tuesday afternoon Claudius and Margaret had taken their way towards the cliff, a solitary couple at that hour on a week-day.  Even at a distance there was something about their appearance that distinguished them from ordinary couples.  Claudius’s great height seemed still more imposing now that he affected the garb of civilisation, and Margaret had the air of a woman of the great world in every movement of her graceful body, and in every fold of her perfect dress.  American women, when they dress well, dress better than any other women in the world; but an American woman who has lived at the foreign courts is unapproachable.  If there had been any one to see these two together on Tuesday afternoon, there would have been words of envy, malice, and hatred.  As it was, they were quite alone on the cliff walk.

Margaret was happy; there was light in her eyes, and a faint warm flush on her dark cheek.  A closed parasol hung from her hand, having an ivory handle carved with an “M” and a crown—­the very one that three months ago had struck the first spark of their acquaintance from the stones of the old Schloss at Heidelberg—­perhaps she had brought it on purpose.  She was happy still, for she did not know that Claudius was going away, though he had brought her out here, away from every one, that he might tell her.  But they had reached the cliff and had walked some distance in the direction of the point, and yet he spoke not.  Something tied his tongue, and he would have spoken if he could, but his words seemed too big to come out.  At last they came to a place where a quick descent leads from the path down to the sea.  A little sheltered nook of sand and stones is there, all irregular and rough, like the lumps in brown sugar, and the lazy sea splashed a little against some old pebbles it had known for a long time, never having found the energy to wash them away.  The rocks above overhung the spot, so that it was entirely shielded from the path, and the rocks below spread themselves into a kind of seat.  Here they sat them down, facing the water—­towards evening—­not too near to each other, not too far,—­Margaret on the right, Claudius on the left.  And Claudius punched the little pebbles with his stick after he had sat down, wondering how he should begin.  Indeed it did not seem easy.  It would have been easier if he had been less advanced, or further advanced, in his suit.  Most people never jump without feeling, at the moment of jumping, that they could leap a little better if they could “take off” an inch nearer or further away.

“Countess,” said the Doctor at last, turning towards her with a very grave look in his face, “I have something to tell you, and I do not know how to say it.”  He paused, and Margaret looked at the sea, without noticing him, for she half fancied he was on the point of repeating his former indiscretion and saying he loved her.  Would it be an indiscretion now?  She wondered what she should say, what she would say, if he did—­venture.  Would she say “it was not right” of him now?  In a moment Claudius had resolved to plunge boldly at the truth.