Mr. Barker smiled under the lambrikin of his moustache. "Yes," thought
he, "but it sha'n't."

"Then," he said aloud, "we will go about eleven."

Claudius sat wondering who the lady could be who wanted to have him
presented. But he was afraid to ask; Barker would immediately suppose he
imagined it to be the dark lady. However, his thoughts took it as a
certainty that it must be she, and went on building castles in the air
and conversations in the clouds. Barker watched him and probably guessed
what he was thinking of; but he did not want to spoil the surprise he
had arranged, and fearing lest Claudius might ask some awkward question,
he went to bed, leaving the Doctor to his cogitations.

In the morning he lay in wait for his friend, who had gone off for an
early walk in the woods. He expected that a renewal of the attack would
be necessary before the sacrifice of the yellow locks could be
accomplished, and he stood on the steps of the hotel, clad in the most
exquisite of grays, tapering down to the most brilliant of boots. He had
a white rose in his buttonhole, and his great black dog was lying at his
feet, having for a wonder found his master, for the beast was given to
roaming, or to the plebeian society of Barker's servant. The American's
careful attire contrasted rather oddly with his sallow face, and with
the bony hand that rested against the column. He was a young man, but he
looked any age that morning. Before long his eye twinkled and he changed
his position expectantly, for he saw the tall figure of Claudius
striding up the street, a head and shoulders above the strolling crowd;
and, wonderful to relate, the hair was gone, the long beard was
carefully clipped and trimmed, and the Doctor wore a new gray hat!