"Society be damned," said the Duke. "Do you think the widow of Alexis cannot command society? Besides, Claudius is a gentleman, and that is quite enough."
"I suppose he is," said Mr. Barker, with an air of regret.
"Suppose? There is no supposing about it. He is." And the Duke looked at his friend as if he would have said, "If I, a real, palpable, tangible, hereditary duke, do not know a gentleman when I see one, what can you possibly know about it, I would like to inquire?" And that settled the matter.
But Mr. Barker was uneasy in his mind. An idea was at work there which was diametrically opposed to the union of Claudius and Margaret, and day by day, as he watched the intimacy growing back into its old proportions, he ground his gold-filled teeth with increasing annoyance. He sought opportunities for saying and doing things that might curtail the length of those hours when Claudius sat at her side, ostensibly reading. Ostensibly? Yes—the first day or two after she had allowed him to come back to her side were days of unexampled industry and severe routine, only the most pertinent criticisms interrupting from time to time the even progress from line to line, from page to page, from paragraph to paragraph, from chapter to chapter. But soon the criticism became less close, the illustration more copious, the tongue more eloquent, and the glance less shy. The elective strength of their two hearts rose up and wrought mightily, saying, "We are made for each other, we understand each other, and these foolish mortals who carry us about in their bosoms shall not keep us apart." And to tell the truth, the foolish mortals made very little effort. Margaret did not believe that Claudius could possibly break his plighted word, and he knew that he would die rather than forfeit his faith. And so they sat side by side with the book, ostensibly reading, actually talking, most of the day. And sometimes one or the other would go a little too near the forbidden point, and then there was a moment's silence, and the least touch of embarrassment; and once Margaret laughed a queer little laugh at one of these stumbles, and once Claudius sighed. But they were very happy, and the faint colour that was natural to the Doctor's clear white skin came back as his heart was eased of its burden, and Margaret's dark cheek grew darker with the sun and the wind that she took no pains to keep from her face, though the olive flushed sometimes to a warmer hue, with pleasure—or what? She thought it was the salt breeze.
"How well those two look!" exclaimed Lady Victoria once to Mr. Barker.
"I have seen Claudius look ghastly," said Barker, for he thought they looked too "well" altogether.
"Yes; do you remember one morning—I think it was the day before, or the day after, the accident? I thought he was going to faint."
"Perhaps he was sea-sick," suggested Barker.
"Oh no, we were a week out then, and he was never ill at all from the first."
"Perhaps he was love-sick," said the other, willing to be spiteful.