“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.”
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.
They put up at a fashionable hotel, and Clara spent a busy time. She did not waste it in sight-seeing. When she was in Paris before she had never visited the Louvre, or Fontainebleau, or Versailles, nor did she go to them now. She preferred the shops; she went to them often and with good effect. Her intention was, if possible, to reconstruct herself. She had saved some money of her own, and she now spent it freely. It was necessary for her, as Tarbot’s wife, to make a good appearance. So she went from shop to shop choosing clothes, and choosing well. Her husband never accompanied her, and she was all the better pleased at this. She had a greater opportunity of doing what she meant to do.
Hour by hour and day by day the woman was changing. She shed her vulgarity as if it were a skin which was useless. She went to the best hairdresser to have her hair arranged. She was told that she had lovely hair—quite the fashionable tone. She got the most expensive lotions to bring out its brilliancy. She bought additional hair at a fabulous price, to pile on her head to add to the richness of her locks, which, in color perfect, were in quantity a little scanty. She also purchased cosmetics, which she applied night and morning to her freckled face. The cosmetics did nothing for the freckles, but she fancied they did. She bought the finest black lace, and many garments trimmed with jet, and soft sweeping robes, mostly black. And Tarbot found out by degrees that he was not ashamed to walk with Clara, and that people turned to look at her.