When Clara had purchased her wardrobe, finally buying an evening dress from Worth, who studied her good figure and peculiar face, and made her a robe which was afterwards talked about in more than one London drawing-room, she told her husband that it was time to return home. “But the fortnight is not up yet,” he said. “Never mind. You are anxious to get back to your patients. I don’t care a fig for fine scenery or picture galleries, or old palaces, or anything of that sort. I came to Paris to get my trousseau. I have got it, and now I wish to return to England.” “All right, Clara,” said Tarbot. “I am abundantly willing.” The pair crossed to Dover by the night boat that evening, and early on the following morning arrived at Tarbot’s house in Harley Street. The servants expected them, and were up. The weather was getting chilly, and Clara was glad to see fires in the rooms and the whole place looking fresh and clean. She looked round with approbation, gave her orders to the footman in a haughty tone, which made him secretly incline to the belief that his master had married a duchess in disguise, and then swept up-stairs to her own room. This room, by Tarbot’s orders, had been newly furnished. It was bare, cold, and correct, but Clara was pleased with it. She liked the sense of space which it gave, and she thought that the pale blue and white furniture would suit her complexion. “By the way,” she said, turning to Tarbot, who followed her, “you intend to give me _carte blanche_ to do what I like in the re-arranging of the house?” “Certainly,” he replied. “I shall have no time to attend to the house. A great number of fresh patients have written for appointments. As soon as I have had breakfast I shall order the brougham and go round at once to attend to them.” “Very well,” said Clara. “That will suit me perfectly.” “Are you not tired?” he said. “You have been up all night. Wouldn’t you like to lie down for a little?” “Tired!” she answered. “I! You forget what my old life was.” “True; but you are so changed—so transformed.” “Luke!” said Clara. She was standing before a glass, removing her hat; she was unpinning it carefully. Those red locks, frizzled and curled, required careful manipulation. She smoothed her hair with her hands, and then, turning, faced her husband. He was leaving the room, but looked round at the sound of her voice. “Yes?” he asked. “Do you love me even a little?” she asked suddenly. He uttered a vexed exclamation and stared at her. “What an inconvenient question, and at such a time!” he exclaimed. “I want to go out. I cannot talk of love now.” She ran up to him, slipped behind him, shut the door, and then stood facing him. “Answer me,” she said. Her heart was beating hard. “Everything in all the world depends upon your answer. Can you by any chance get to feel not _sorry_ that you married me?” “Not sorry?” he said. “Yes; can you ever get to feel glad?” “Glad!” he cried. “Yes, yes! Speak, speak!”