"Oh, away—away from New York, and—and Mr. Barker and Mr. Screw and all these horrid people," she cried; for she too had confessed and told him all.
"Yes," he said; and was silent for a moment. "Dear one," he began again, "there is one thing more that you ought to know—" he stopped.
"Yes?" she said interrogatively.
"My blessed lady, I have told you the story of my birth for the first time to-day. I thought you ought to know it."
"That would never have made any difference, Claudius," she answered half reproachfully.
"My uncle—my father's brother—died a week before I sailed."
"I am sorry, dear," said she in ready sympathy; "were you fond of him?" She did not realise what he meant.
"I never remember to have seen him," he replied; "but—he died childless. And I—I am no longer a privat-docent." Margaret turned quickly to him, comprehending suddenly.
"Then you are the heir?" she asked.
"Yes, darling," he said softly. "It is a great name, and you must help me to be worthy of it. I am no longer Dr. Claudius." He added the last sentence with a shade of regret.