The Duke was away during the day, and did not receive the Countess's
note until late in the evening. To tell the truth, he was very glad to
find that she was going; but he felt there might be difficulties in the
way; for, of course, he was bound to let her know the names of his
remaining guests. She might hesitate when she heard that Claudius and
Barker were to be of the party. After all, Barker was the companion whom
the Duke wanted. He knew nothing about Claudius, but he had met enough
men of all types of eccentricity not to be much surprised at him, and as
the Doctor was evidently a gentleman, there was no objection. Therefore,
as soon as the Duke knew of Margaret's determination, he sallied forth,
armed with her note, to find Mr. Barker. It was late, but the American
was nocturnal in his habits, and was discovered by his friend in a huge
cloud of tobacco smoke, examining his nails with that deep interest
which in some persons betokens thought.
"It's all right," said the Duke; "she will go."
"You don't mean it?" said Barker, taking his legs off the sofa and
wrinkling his face.
"There you are. Note. Formal acceptance, and all the rest of it." And he
handed Margaret's letter to Barker.
"Well, that is pretty smart practice," remarked the latter; "I expected
you would have difficulties."
"Said she would take some days to make up her mind. She wrote this the
same evening I called, I am sure. Just like a woman."
"Well, I think it's deuced lucky, anyhow," said Barker. "Did you tell
her who was going?"
"I told her about my sister. I have not mentioned you or your friend
yet. Of course I will do that as soon as I am sure of you both."
"Well," said Barker, "if you don't mind, perhaps you might write a note
to the Doctor. He might be shy of accepting an invitation by word of
mouth. Do you mind?"
"Not in the least," said the Englishman; "give me a rag of paper and a
quill, and I'll do it now."
And he accordingly did it, and directed the invitation to Claudius,
Phil.D., and Barker pushed it into the crack of the door leading to the
apartment where the Doctor was sleeping, lest it should be forgotten.
The next morning Claudius appeared with the Duke's note in his hand.
"What does this mean?" he asked. "I hardly know him at all, and here he
asks me to cross the Atlantic in his yacht. I wish you would explain."
"Keep your hair on, my young friend," replied Mr. Barker jocosely. "He
has asked you and me because his party would not be complete without
us."
"And who are 'the party'?"
"Oh, very small. Principally his sister, I believe. Hold on though, Miss
Skeat is going."
"Miss Skeat?" Claudius anticipated some chaff from his friend, and knit
his brows a little.
"Yes; Miss Skeat and the Countess; or, perhaps I should say the Countess
and Miss Skeat."
"Ah!" ejaculated Claudius, "any one else?"
"Not that I know of. Will you go?"
"It is rather sudden," said the Doctor reflectively.
"You must make up your mind one way or the other, or you will spoil the
Duke's arrangements."
"Barker," said Claudius seriously, "do you suppose the Countess knows
who are going?"
"My dear boy," replied the other, peeling a peach which he had impaled
on a fork, "it is not likely the Duke would ask a lady to go with him
without telling her who the men were to be. Be calm, however; I have
observed your habits, and in two hours and twenty-three minutes your
mind will be at rest."
"How so?"
"It is now thirty-seven minutes past nine. Do you mean to say you have
failed once for weeks past to be at the Countess's as the clock strikes
twelve?"
Claudius was silent. It was quite true; he went there daily at the same
hour; for, as appeared in the beginning of this tale, he was a regular
man. But he reflected just now that the Countess would not be likely to
speak of the party unless she knew that he was to be one. He had not
accepted his invitation yet, and the Duke would certainly not take his
acceptance as a foregone conclusion. Altogether it seemed probable that
he would be kept in suspense. If he then accepted without being sure of
the Countess, he was binding himself to leave her. Claudius had many
things to learn yet.
"If I were you," said Barker, "I would write at once and say 'Yes.' Why
can't you do it now?"
"Because I have not made up my mind."
"Well, a bird in the hand is the soul of business, as the good old
proverb says. I have accepted for myself, anyhow; but I would be sorry
to leave you on this side."
So Claudius went to the Countess as usual, and found her in her
morning-room awaiting him. He bent over her hand, but as he took it he
thought it was a trifle colder than usual. It might have been
imagination, but he fancied her whole manner was less cordial than
before. And he said to himself, "She has heard I am going, and she is
annoyed, and is not glad to see me." There was a preternatural solemnity
about their conversation which neither of them could break through, and
in a few minutes they both looked as though they had not smiled for
years.
Now Claudius was entirely mistaken. Margaret had not heard that he was
going. If she had, she would have spoken frankly, as was her nature to
do always, if she spoke at all. Margaret had accepted the Duke's
invitation, and intended to keep her word, and she had no suspicion
whatever of who the other guests might be. She foresaw that such a
journey would break up her acquaintance with Claudius, and she regretted
it; and especially she regretted having allowed the Doctor so much
intimacy and so many visits. Not that he had taken advantage of the
footing on which he was received, for any signs of such a disposition on
his part would have abruptly terminated the situation; he had been the
very model of courtesy from the first. But she knew enough of men to
perceive that this gentle homage clothed a more sincere admiration than
lay at the root of the pushing attentions of some other men she had
known. Therefore she made up her mind that as there were yet three
weeks before sailing, after the expiration of which she would never be
likely to see Claudius again, she would let him down easily, so to
speak, that there might be no over-tender recollections on his part, nor
any little stings of remorse on her own. He had interested her; they had
spent a couple of pleasant months; she had given him no encouragement,
and he was gone without a sigh: that was the way in which Countess
Margaret hoped to remember Dr. Claudius by that time next month. And so,
fearing lest she might inadvertently have been the least shade too
cordial, she began to be a little more severe, on this hot morning when
Claudius, full of indecision, followed her out to their favourite
reading-place under the trees. It was the same spot where they had sat
when Barker first brought him to see her. Margaret had no particular
feeling about the little nook under the trees. It was merely the most
convenient place to sit and work; that was all. But to Claudius the
circle of green sward represented the temple of his soul, and Margaret
was to him Rune Wife and prophetess as well as divinity. In such places,
and of such women, his fair-haired forefathers, bare-armed and
sword-girt, had asked counsel in trouble, and song-inspiration in peace.
Here they sat them down, she determined to do the right by him, and
thinking it an easy matter; he utterly misunderstanding her. Without a
smile, they set to work at their reading. They read for an hour or more,
maintaining the utmost gravity, when, as luck would have it, the word
"friendship" occurred in a passage of the book. Claudius paused a
moment, his broad hand laid flat on the open page.
"That is one of the most interesting and one of the most singularly
misunderstood words in all languages," he said.
"What word?" inquired Margaret, looking up from her work, to which she
had attentively applied herself while he was reading.
"Friendship."
"Will you please define what it means?" said she.
"I can define what I myself mean by it, or rather what I think I mean by
it. I can define what a dozen writers have meant by it. But I cannot
tell what it really means, still less what it may ultimately come to
mean."
"You will probably be best able to explain what you mean by it
yourself," answered Margaret rather coldly. "Will you please begin?"
"It seems to me," Claudius began, "that the difficulty lies in the
contradiction between the theory and the fact. Of course, as in all such
cases, the theory loses the battle, and we are left groping for an
explanation of the fact which we do not understand. Perhaps that is a
little vague?" Claudius paused.
"A little vague--yes," said she.
"I will try and put it more clearly. First take the fact. No one will
deny that there have occasionally in the world's history existed
friendships which have stood every test and which have lasted to the
very end. Such attachments have been always affairs of the heart, even
between man and man. I do not think you can name an instance of a
lasting friendship on a purely intellectual basis. True friendship
implies the absence of envy, and the vanity of even the meanest
intellect is far too great to admit of such a condition out of pure
thought-sympathy."
"I do not see any contradiction, even admitting your last remark, which
is cynical enough." Margaret spoke indifferently, as making a mere
criticism.
"But I believe most people connect the idea of friendship, beyond
ordinary liking, with intellectual sympathy. They suppose, for instance,
that a man may love a woman wholly and entirely with the best kind of
love, and may have at the same time a friend with whom he is in entire
sympathy."
"And why not?" she asked.
"Simply because he cannot serve two masters. If he is in entire sympathy
with more than one individual he must sometimes not only contradict
himself, as he would rightly do for one or the other alone, but he must
also contradict one in favour of the other in case they disagree. In
such a case he is no longer in entire sympathy with both, and either his
love or his friendship must be imperfect." Claudius looked at the
Countess to see what impression he had made. She did not return his
glance.
"In other words?" was her question.
"In other words," he answered in a tone of conviction, "friendship is
only a substitute for love, and cannot exist beside it unless lover and
friend be one and the same person. Friendship purely intellectual is a
fallacy, owing to the manifest imperfections of human nature. It must,
then, be an affair of the heart, whatever you may define that to be, and
cannot, therefore, exist at the same time with any other affair of the
heart without inevitable contradiction. How often has love separated old
friends, and friendship bred discord between lovers!"
"I never heard that argument before," said Margaret, who, to tell the
truth, was surprised at the result of the Doctor's discourse.
"What do you think of it?" he asked.
"I am not sure, but the point is interesting. I think you are a little
vague about what an 'affair of the heart,' as you call it, really is."
"I suppose an affair of the heart to be such a situation of the feelings
that the heart rules the head and the actions by the head. The prime
essence of love is that it should be complete, making no reservations
and allowing of no check from the reason."
"A dangerous state of things."
"Yes," said Claudius. "When the heart gets the mastery it knows neither
rest nor mercy. If the heart is good the result will be good, if it is
bad the result will be evil. Real love has produced incalculably great
results in the lives of individuals and in the life of the world."
"I suppose so," said Margaret; "but you made out friendship to be also
an 'affair of the heart,' so far as you believe in it at all. Is true
friendship as uncalculating as true love? Does it make no reservations,
and does it admit of no check from the reason?"
"I think, as I said, that friendship is a substitute for love, second
best in its nature and second best, too, in its unselfishness."
"Many people say love is selfishness itself."
"I know," answered the Doctor, and paused as if thinking.
"Do you not want to smoke?" asked Margaret, with a tinge of irony, "it
may help you to solve the difficulty."
"Thank you, no," said he, "the difficulty is solved, and it is no
difficulty at all. The people who say that do not know what they are
talking about, for they have never been in love themselves. Love, worth
the name, is complete; and being complete, demands the whole, and is
not satisfied with less than the whole any more than it is satisfied
with giving less than all that it has. The selfishness lies in demanding
and insisting upon having everything, while only offering rags and
shreds in return; and if one may find this fault in ordinary love
affairs, one may find it tenfold in ordinary friendships. Friendship may
be heroic but love is godlike."
Margaret had become interested in spite of herself, though she had
preserved the constrained manner she had first assumed. Now, however, as
Claudius turned his flashing blue eyes to hers, she understood that she
had allowed the conversation to go far enough, and she marvelled that on
the very day when she was trying to be most unapproachable he should
have said more to show what was next his heart than ever before. She did
not know enough of exceptional natures like his to be aware that a touch
of the curb is the very thing to rouse the fierce blood. True, he spoke
generally, and even argumentatively, and his deep voice was calm enough,
but there was a curious light in his eyes that dazzled her even in the
mid-day sun, and she looked away.
"I am not sure I agree with you," she said, "but you put it very
clearly. Shall we go on reading?"
Claudius was some time in finding his place in the open book, and then
went on. Again he misunderstood her, for though he could not remember
saying anything he regretted, he fancied she had brought the
conversation to a somewhat abrupt close. He read on, feeling very
uncomfortable, and longing for one of those explanations that are
impossible between acquaintances and emotional between lovers. He felt
also that if he ever spoke out and told her he loved her it would be in
some such situation as the present. Margaret let her needlework drop and
leaned back in the long chair, staring at a very uninteresting-looking
tree on the other side of the garden. Claudius read in a steady
determined tone, emphasising his sentences with care, and never once
taking his eyes from the book. At last, noticing how quietly he was
doing his work, Margaret looked at him, not furtively or as by stealth,
but curiously and thoughtfully. He was good to look at, so strong and
straight, even as he sat at ease with the book in his hand, and the
quivering sunlight through the leaves played over his yellow beard and
white forehead. She knew well enough now that he admired her greatly,
and she hoped it would not be very hard for him when she went away.
Somehow, he was still to her the professor, the student, quiet and
dignified and careless of the world, as she had first known him. She
could not realise Claudius as a man of wealth and power, who was as well
able to indulge his fancies as the Duke himself,--perhaps more so, for
the Duke's financial affairs were the gossip of Europe, and always had
been since he came of age.
Meanwhile the Doctor reached the end of the chapter, and there was a
pause. Neither spoke, and the silence was becoming awkward, when a
servant came across the lawn announcing the Duke.
"Ask his Grace to come outside," said Margaret, and the representative
of the aristocracy was striding over the green, hat in hand, a moment
afterwards. Margaret put out her hand and Claudius rose. Each felt that
the _deus ex machinâ_ had arrived, and that the subject of the yachting
excursion would be immediately broached.
"Immense luck, finding you both," remarked the Duke when he was seated.
"We have been reading. It is so pleasant here," said Margaret, to say
something.
"I have come to thank you for your kind note, Countess. It is extremely
good of you to go in such a party, with your taste for literature and
those sort of things."
"I am sure it is I who ought to thank you, Duke. But when are we to
sail?"
"About the tenth of next month, I should say. Will that be convenient?"
Margaret turned to Claudius.
"Do you think we can finish our book by the tenth, Dr. Claudius?"
"If not," broke in the Duke, "there is no reason why you should not
finish it on board. We shall have lovely weather."
"Oh no!" said Margaret, "we must finish it before we start. I could not
understand a word of it alone."
"Alone?" inquired the Duke. "Ah! I forgot. Thought he had told you. I
have asked Dr. Claudius to give us the pleasure of his company."
"Oh, indeed!" said Margaret. "That will be very nice." She did not look
as if she thought so, however. Her expression was not such as led the
Duke to believe she was pleased, or Claudius to think she would like his
going. To tell the truth, she was annoyed for more than one reason. She
thought the Duke, although he was such an old friend, should have
consulted her before making up the list of men for the party. She was
annoyed with Claudius because he had not told her he was going, when he
really thought she knew it, and was displeased at it. And most of all,
she was momentarily disconcerted at being thus taken off her guard.
Besides, the Duke must have supposed she liked Claudius very much, and
he had perhaps contrived the whole excursion in order to throw them
together. Her first impulse was to change her mind and not go after all.
Meanwhile Claudius was much astonished at the turn things had taken.
Margaret had known nothing about the invitation to the Doctor after all,
and her coldness this morning must be attributed to some other cause.
But now that she did know she looked less pleased than ever. She did not
want him. The Doctor was a proud man in his quiet way, and he was,
moreover, in love, not indeed hopelessly as yet, for love is never
wholly irrevocable until it has survived the crucial test, attainment of
its object; but Claudius loved, and he knew it. Consequently his pride
revolted at the idea of thrusting himself where he was not wanted, and
his love forbade him to persecute the woman he worshipped. He also said
to himself, "I will not go." He had not yet accepted the invitation.
"I had intended to write to you this afternoon," he said, turning to the
Duke. "But since it is my good fortune to be able to thank you in person
for your kind invitation, let me do so now."
"I hope you are going," said the Duke.
"I fear," answered Claudius, "that I shall be prevented from joining
you, much as I would like to do so. I have by no means decided to
abandon my position in Heidelberg."
Neither Margaret nor the Duke were in the least prepared for this piece
of news. The Duke was taken aback at the idea that any human being could
refuse such an invitation. Following on his astonishment that Margaret
should not be delighted at having the Doctor on board, the intelligence
that the Doctor did not want to go at all threw the poor man into the
greatest perplexity. He had made a mistake somewhere, evidently; but
where or how he could not tell.
"Barker," he said to himself, "is an ass. He has made me muff the whole
thing." However, he did not mean to give up the fight.
"I am extremely sorry to hear you say that, Dr. Claudius," he said
aloud, "and I hope you will change your mind, if I have to send you an
invitation every day until we sail. You know one does not ask people on
one's yacht unless one wants them very much, and we want you. It is just
like asking a man to ride your favourite hunter; you would not ask him
unless you meant it, for fear he would." The Duke seldom made so long a
speech, and Claudius felt that the invitation was really genuine, which
gave his wounded pride a pleasant little respite from its aches. He was
grateful, and he said so. Margaret was silent and plied her needle,
planning how she might escape the party if Claudius changed his mind and
went, and how she could with decency leave herself the option of going
if he remained. She did not intend to give people any farther chance of
pairing her off with Claudius or any one else whom they thought she
fancied, and she blamed herself for having given people even the shadow
of an idea that such officious party-making would please her.
Claudius rose to go. The position was not tenable any longer, and it was
his only course. The Countess bade him good morning with more cordiality
than she had displayed as yet; for, in spite of her annoyance, she
would have been sorry to wound his feelings. The change of tone at
first gave Claudius a thrill of pleasure, which gave way to an increased
sense of mortification as he reflected that she was probably only
showing that she was glad to be rid of him--a clumsy, manlike thought,
which his reason would soon get the better of. So he departed.
There was silence for some minutes after he had gone, for Margaret and
the Englishman were old friends, and there was no immediate necessity
for making conversation. At last he spoke with a certain amount of
embarrassment.
"I ought to have told you before that I had asked those two men."
"Who is the other?" she inquired without looking up.
"Why, Barker, his friend."
"Oh, of course! But it would have been simpler to have told me. It made
it rather awkward, for of course Dr. Claudius thought I knew he was
asked and wondered why I did not speak of it. Don't you see?" she raised
her eyes as she put the question.
"It was idiotic of me, and I am very sorry. Please forgive me."
"As he is not going, it does not make any difference, of course, and so
I forgive you."
Considering that Barker had suggested the party, that it was Barker whom
the Duke especially wanted to amuse him on the trip, that Barker had
proposed Margaret and Claudius, and that, finally, the whole affair was
a horrid mess, the Duke did not see what he could have done. But he knew
it was good form to be penitent whenever it seemed to be expected, and
he liked Margaret well enough to hope that she would go. He did not
care very much for the society of women at any time. He was more or less
married when he was at home, which was never for long together, and when
he was away he preferred the untrammelled conversational delights of a
foreign green-room to the twaddle of the embassies or to the mingled
snobbery and philistinism produced by the modern fusion of the almighty
dollar and the _ancienne noblesse_.
And so he was in trouble just now, and his one idea was to submit to
everything the Countess might say, and then to go and "give it" to Mr.
Barker for producing so much complication. But Margaret had nothing more
to say about the party, and launched out into a discussion of the
voyage. She introduced a cautious "if" in most of her sentences. "_If_ I
go I would like to see Madeira," and "_if_ we join you, you must take
care of Miss Skeat, and give her the best cabin," etc. etc. The Duke
wisely abstained from pressing his cause, or asking why she qualified
her plans. At last he got away, after promising to do every conceivable
and inconceivable thing which she should now or at any future time
evolve from the depths of her inventive feminine consciousness.
"By the way, Duke," she called after him, as he went over the, lawn,
"may I take old Vladimir if I go?"
"If you go," he answered, moving back a step or two, "you may bring all
the Imperial Guards if you choose, and I will provide transports for
those that the yacht won't hold."
"Thanks; that is all," she said laughing, and the stalwart peer vanished
through the house. The moment he was gone Margaret dropped her work and
lay back in her long chair to think. The heavy lids half closed over
her dark eyes, and the fingers of her right hand slowly turned round and
round the ring she wore upon her left. Miss Skeat was upstairs reading
Lord Byron's _Corsair_ in anticipation of the voyage. Margaret did not
know this, or the thought of the angular and well-bred Scotchwoman
bounding over the glad waters of the dark blue sea would have made her
smile. As it was, she looked serious.
"I am sorry," she thought to herself. "It was nice of him to say he
would not go."
Meanwhile the strong-legged nobleman footed it merrily towards Barker's
hotel. It was a good two miles, and the Duke's ruddy face shone again
under the August sun. But the race characteristic was strong in him, and
he liked to make himself unnecessarily hot; moreover he was really fond
of Barker, and now he was going to pitch into him, as he said to
himself, so it was indispensable to keep the steam up. He found his
friend as usual the picture of dried-up coolness, so to say. Mr. Barker
never seemed to be warm, but he never seemed to feel cold either, and at
this moment, as he sat in a half-lighted room, clad in a variety of
delicate gray tints, with a collar that looked like fresh-baked biscuit
ware, and a pile of New York papers and letters beside him, he was
refreshing to the eye.
"Upon my word, Barker, you always look cool," said the Duke, as he sat
himself down in an arm-chair, and passed his handkerchief round his
wrists. "I would like to know how you do it."
"To begin with, I do not rush madly about in the sun in the middle of
the day. That may have something to do with it."
The Duke sneezed loudly, from the mingled dust and sunshine he had been
inhaling.
"And then I don't come into a cold room and catch cold, like you. Here I
sit in seclusion and fan myself with the pages of my newspapers as I
turn them over."
"You have got us all into the deuce of a mess with your confounded
coolness," said the Duke after a pause, during which he had in vain
searched all his pockets for his cigar-case. Barker had watched him, and
pushed an open box of Havanas across the table. But the Duke was
determined to be sulky, and took no notice of the attention. The
circular wrinkle slowly furrowed its way round Barker's mouth, and his
under jaw pushed forward. It always amused him to see sanguine people
angry. They looked so uncomfortable, and "gave themselves away" so
recklessly.
"If you won't smoke, have some beer," he suggested. But his Grace fumed
the redder.
"I don't understand how a man of your intelligence, Barker, can go and
put people into such awkward positions," he said. "I think it is
perfectly idiotic."
"Write me down an ass, by all means," said Barker calmly; "but please
explain what you mean. I told you not to buy in the Green Swash Mine,
and now I suppose you have gone and done it, because I said it might
possibly be active some day."
"I have been to see the Countess this morning," said the Duke, beating
the dust from his thick walking-boot with his cane.
"Ah!" said Barker, without any show of interest. "Was she at home?"
"I should think so," said the Duke. "Very much at home, and Dr. Claudius
was there too."
"Oh! so you are jealous of Claudius, are you?" The ducal wrath rose.
"Barker, you are insufferably ridiculous."
"Duke, you had much better go to bed," returned his friend.
"Look here, Barker--"
"Do not waste your vitality in that way," said the American. "I wish I
had half of it. It quite pains me to see you. Now I will put the whole
thing clearly before you as I suppose it happened, and you shall tell me
if it is my fault or not, and whether, after all, it is such a very
serious matter. Countess Margaret did not know that Claudius was going,
and did not speak of the trip. Claudius thought she was angry, and when
you arrived and let the cat out of the bag the Countess thought you were
trying to amuse yourself by surprising her, and she was angry too. Then
they both made common cause and would have nothing more to do with you,
and told you to go to the devil, and at this moment they are planning to
remain here for the next forty or fifty years, and are sending off a
joint telegram to Professor Immanuel Spencer, or whatever his name is,
to hurry up and get some more books ready for them to read. I am glad
you have not bought Green Swash, though, really." There was a pause, and
the Duke glared savagely at the cigar-box.
"Is your serene highness satisfied that I know all about it?" asked
Barker at last.
"No, I am not. And I am not serene. She says she will go, and Claudius
says he won't. And it is entirely your fault."
"It is not of any importance what he says, or whether it is my fault or
not. If you had bestirred yourself to go and see her at eleven before
Claudius arrived it would not have happened. But he will go all the
same; never fear. And the Countess will persuade him too, without our
doing anything in the matter."
"You would not have thought so if you had seen the way she received the
news that he was invited," grumbled the Duke.
"If you associated more with women you would understand them better,"
replied the other.
"I dare say." The Englishman was cooler, and at last made up his mind to
take one of Mr. Barker's cigars. When he had lit it, he looked across at
his friend. "How do you expect to manage it?" he inquired.
"If you will write a simple little note to the Countess, and say you are
sorry there should have been any misunderstanding, and if you and I
leave those two to themselves for ten days, even if she invites us to
dinner, they will manage it between them, depend upon it. They are in
love, you know perfectly well."
"I suppose they are," said the Duke, as if he did not understand that
kind of thing. "I think I will have some curaçao and potass;" and he
rang the bell.
"That's not half a bad idea," he said when he was refreshed. "I begin to
think you are not so idiotic as I supposed."
"Waal," said Barker, suddenly affecting the accents of his native shore,
"I _ain't_ much on the drivel _this_ journey _any_how." The Duke
laughed; he always laughed at Americanisms.
"I guess _so_," said the Duke, trying ineffectually to mimic his friend.
Then he went on in his natural voice, "I have an idea."
"Keep it," said Barker; "they are scarce."
"No; seriously. If we must leave them alone, why--why should we not go
down and look at the yacht?"
"Not bad at all. As you say, we might go round and see how she looks.
Where is she?"
"Nice."
So the one went down and the other went round, but they went together,
and saw the yacht, and ran over to Monte Carlo, and had a good taste of
the dear old green-table, now that they could not have it in Baden any
longer. And they enjoyed the trip, and were temperate and well dressed
and cynical, after their kind. But Claudius stayed where he was.