“Where did you learn all this gibberish, Clara? Oh, of course, with Dr. Weismann in Paris. He was a rare humbug.” “You would not think so if you had been in his employment, as I was for three years. He performed marvelous cures, and was a wonderful man.” “He is dead, is he not?” said Tarbot. “He is. Had he been alive I should still have been with him.” “Aye, Clara, and happier than with me.” “Perhaps so, Luke; but all the same, I am with you, and I would not change my lot for that of any other woman in the world. It is within your power to——” “To do what?” “To make me the happiest woman on earth.” “How?” “You know how.” “Yes, I know how,” he said half sleepily, for already she was looking into his eyes. “I have done much for you, after all, Clara,” he said. “It is not every man who would marry a woman like you. You were a very plain woman before I gave you the means to dress yourself properly. You are not exactly plain now. You remind me of a beautiful snake—your head, as you arrange your hair lately, looks brilliant, but at any moment you may stretch out a forked tongue and strike, strike death—you give that impression. It is not a pleasant one, and yet to a certain extent it fascinates. You have a power of your own, and on many men you can exercise it, but not on me. I have done much for you. What more do you want? I have given you house, name, position, unlimited wealth—what more do you want?” “I want more—a little thing, but of such priceless value!” she said hungrily. He was lying back looking up at her. She was making passes across his forehead. “I feel strangely sleepy,” he said. “The most delicious sleep steals over me. It is wonderful! You are a queer creature. What more did you say you wanted—what is the thing of priceless value?” “A heart, Luke—yours.” Tarbot gave a laugh. “My heart!” he cried. “It is out of your reach—high as the heavens it is above you, or low as hell beneath you, whichever simile you like best. It can never be yours. Did you say I should wake in three hours?” “In three hours,” she answered quietly. “Don’t turn your eyes from me—keep looking at me.” “Your eyes are big and bright—wonderfully bright. There is a flash of sea-green in them. Now, Barbara’s eyes are brown with golden lights—yours are green and icy cold. How sleepy I feel. No, you will never have my heart—but folly! I won’t give way to this.” The next instant his eyes closed, and he was in a sound and childlike slumber. Clara looked at him with a grim smile on her face. “I believe I shall win him yet,” she murmured. “If so, beware, little Piers Pelham!” CHAPTER XXIII. WITH THE DOCTORS. Barbara received Mrs. Tarbot’s letter by the first post in the morning. She read the contents and determined to act on Clara’s counsel at once. Pelham was just getting up when his wife appeared.