“Yes, yes! Speak, speak!”
“Glad that I married you!” he repeated.
“Speak, Luke! Tell me the truth.” She clasped her hands tightly together. There was an imploring expression in her eyes, her lips were trembling.
“Glad that I tied myself to you!” he continued. “Good Heavens! what are you made of? Let me go.” He pushed her roughly aside, opened the door, slammed it after him, and ran down-stairs.
Clara listened with a wild expression on her face until his retreating footsteps ceased to sound. Then she fell on her knees, clasped her hands before her face, and burst into a passion of weeping.
“The die is cast,” she said at last when she rose to her feet. “I am his wife, and I love him, but I will oppose him through thick and thin now—he has himself to blame.”
A few minutes afterwards, quite calm and cold and placid-looking, the new mistress of No. 250, Harley Street, swept down-stairs. She had already changed her traveling dress for one of black velvet. This dress had a long train. Round her neck she wore a scarf artistically arranged. The scarf was of rich old Spanish lace. Her face, very pale, rose above its picturesque surroundings, looking haughty and well. The footman was decidedly impressed by her. The butler, however, knew better.
“She ain’t a lady—don’t tell me!” he said.
“Oh, she is,” cried the footman. “Didn’t you notice her ’aughty hairs? Yes, she’s a lady, and no mistake. Most probable she come to grief with her first, and took up Tarbot as better than nothing. She’s a marchioness at the least.”
“Marchioness you!” said the butler. “Don’t talk folly.”