Clara made no reply, but her gray eyes were still fixed upon him.
“And until it is over I shall have no rest,” he continued. “There is a fever here.” He laid his hand against his heart.
“If you will go to your room you can have two or three hours of perfect quiet,” said Clara. “Lay your head on your pillow, and you will drop asleep immediately.”
“I wish I could take your advice, but I am the victim of insomnia; it has only come on lately. I did not like to tell you of it. I would give the world at this present moment for a couple of hours’ refreshing slumber.”
“Let me make some passes across your forehead—I know exactly how. You will soon sleep if I do so.”
“You mean that you want to mesmerize me?”
“Not exactly to mesmerize you, Luke—not to go as far as that. It would require a stronger woman than I am to mesmerize a man like you.”
He smiled at her—his slow, inscrutable smile.
“But I can put you to sleep. Let me try. Just stay quiet, and don’t resist me. Let yourself go. In ten minutes you will be asleep.”
“Can you limit the duration of my sleep?” he asked.
“Yes, you shall sleep for an hour, two hours, three hours. How long can you give yourself?”
“I can sleep until nine, I believe. Will you promise to wake me at nine o’clock?”
“You shall wake yourself. I need not be present. I will simply suggest to you that you sleep for three hours, and at nine you will wake. You may rest assured that things will happen exactly as I wish.”
“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. Had he been alive I should still have been with him.”
“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 make me the happiest woman on earth.”
“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?”