“Whom?” asked Claudius, who did not intend to understand his companion’s chaff.

But Mr. Barker had shot his arrow, and started cleverly as he answered—­

“Did I say anything?  I must have been talking to myself.”

Claudius was not so sure.  However, the hint had produced its effect, falling, as it did, into the vague current of his thoughts and giving them direction.  He began to wonder whether there was any likelihood of his meeting the woman of whom he had thought so much, and before long he found himself constructing a conversation, supposed to take place on their first encounter, overleaping such trifles as probability, the question of an introduction, and other formalities with the ready agility of a mind accustomed to speculation.

“The scenery is fine, is it not?” remarked Claudius tritely as they neared Baden.

“Oh yes, for Europe.  We manage our landscapes better in America.”

“How so?”

“Swivels.  You can turn the rocks around and see the other side.”

Claudius laughed a little, but Barker did not smile.  He was apparently occupied in inventing a patent transformation landscape on wheels.  In reality, he was thinking out a menu for dinner whereby he might feed his friend without starving himself.  For Mr. Barker was particular about his meals, and accustomed to fare sumptuously every day, whereas he had observed that the Doctor was fond of sausages and decayed cabbage.  But he knew such depraved tastes could not long withstand the blandishments and caressing hypersensualism of Delmonico, if he ever got the Doctor so far.

Having successfully accomplished the business of dining, Mr. Barker promised to return in an hour, and sallied out to find the British aristocracy, whom he knew.  The British aristocracy was taking his coffee in solitude at the principal cafe, and hailed Mr. Barker’s advent with considerable interest, for they had tastes in common.

“How are you, Duke?”

“Pretty fit, thanks.  Where have you been?”

“Oh, all over.  I was just looking for you.”

“Yes?” said the aristocracy interrogatively.

“Yes.  I want you to introduce me to somebody you know.”

“Pleasure.  Who?”

“She has black eyes and dark hair, very dark complexion, middling height, fine figure; carries an ivory-handled parasol with a big M and a crown.”  Mr. Barker paused for a look of intelligence on the Englishman’s face.

“Sure she’s here?” inquired the latter.

“I won’t swear.  She was seen in Heidelberg, admiring views and dropping her parasol about, something like three weeks ago.”

“Oh! ah, yes.  Come on.”  And the British aristocracy settled the rose in his button-hole and led the way.  He moved strongly with long steps, but Mr. Barker walked delicately like Agag.

“By the by, Barker, she is a countrywoman of yours.  She married a Russian, and her name is Margaret.”