“But perhaps you have forgotten what part of London it’s in?”
“Not I—not I: it’s near Harley Street where that dreadful doctor lives—I hate that doctor, Mrs. Ives. Oh, I know quite well how to get there, and as you say, it wouldn’t be telling.”
“Of course it wouldn’t; and it would be much nicer for you if I guessed your secret, for then we could talk it over together. I tell you what: let’s go out at once, without waiting for that cap of yours. We can buy a new one for sixpence at the first shop we come across.”
They went.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE DIE CAST.
Everything turned out according to Nurse Ives’ wishes. In a week’s time she and Dr. Tarbot were married by special license at St. James’s, Fore Street.
Tarbot made a sullen bridegroom. Even during the ceremony he showed a morose face. Clara, on the contrary, looked animated, eager, excitedly happy.
The ceremony was over, the signatures signed in the vestry, and the bride and bridegroom were congratulated by their witnesses. Tarbot put a couple of guineas into each of the verger’s palms. He also paid a handsome fee to the clergyman, and the bride and the bridegroom were off. Tarbot had asked Clara where she wished to spend her honeymoon, and she promptly answered Paris.
“I know Paris well, of course, but I could never see enough of it,” she said. “I’d love to go there again.”
Tarbot was quite agreeable. Her choice even pleased him.