"Si tôt, Madame? it is yet very morning," argued the girl with a little show of polite surprise.
"That is indifferent. Go, Clémentine, and tell Monsieur le Duc I will see him at once."
"At once, Madame? I run," said Clémentine, going slowly to the door.
"Enfin—when I am dressed. Don't you understand?" said Margaret impatiently.
"Parfaitement, Madame. I will speak with Monsieur Veelees." And she vanished.
It was a bright November morning, and though there had been a slight frost daring the night, it was fast vanishing before the sun. Margaret went to the window and breathed the cool air. An indescribable longing seized her to be out, among trees and plants and fresh growing things—to blow away the dark dreams of the night, the visions of Barker and Screw, and of the ballroom, and of that detestable Japanese boudoir. She hurried her toilet in a manner that completely aroused Clémentine's vigilant suspicion.
"Hélas," Clémentine used to say to Willis the Duke's servant, "Je ne lui ai jamais connu d'amant. I had pourtant much hoped of Monsieur Clodiuse." But she never ventured such remarks when old Vladimir was at hand.
When the Countess was dressed she went out into her little drawing-room, and found the Duke looking more sunburnt and healthy than ever, though a trifle thinner. The rough active Western life always agreed with him. He came forward with a bright smile to meet her.
"Upon my word, how well you look!" he exclaimed as he shook hands; and indeed she was beautiful to see, for if the sleepless night had made her pale, the good news of Claudius's coming had brought the fire to her eyes.
"Do I?" said she. "I am glad; and you look well too. Your run on the prairies has done you good. Come," said she, leading him to the window, "it is a beautiful day. Let us go out."