“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.