"I was going to slit the picture from the top to the bottom."
"And why?" said Mrs. Broughton, putting up her hands to heaven in tragic horror.
"Just to show Miss Van Siever how little I care about it."
"And how little you care about her, too," said Mrs. Broughton.
"She might take that as she liked." After this there was another genuine sitting, and the real work went on as though there had been no episode. Jael fixed her face, and held her hammer as though her mind and heart were solely bent on seeming to be slaying Sisera. Dalrymple turned his eyes from the canvas to the model, and from the model to the canvas, working with his hand all the while, as though that last pathetic "Clara" had never been uttered; and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton reclined on a sofa, looking at them and thinking of her own singularly romantic position, till her mind was filled with a poetic frenzy. In one moment she resolved that she would hate Clara as woman was never hated by woman; and then there were daggers, and poison-cups, and strangling cords in her eye. In the next she was as firmly determined that she would love Mrs. Conway Dalrymple as woman never was loved by woman; and then she saw herself kneeling by a cradle, and tenderly nursing a baby, of which Conway was to be the father and Clara the mother. And so she went to sleep.
For some time Dalrymple did not observe this; but at last there was a little sound,—even the ill-nature of Miss Demolines could hardly have called it a snore,—and he became aware that for practical purposes he and Miss Van Siever were again alone together. "Clara," he said, in a whisper. Mrs. Broughton instantly aroused herself from her slumbers, and rubbed her eyes. "Dear, dear, dear," she said, "I declare it's past one. I'm afraid I must turn you both out. One more sitting, I suppose, will finish it, Conway?"
"Yes, one more," said he. It was always understood that he and Clara should not leave the house together, and therefore he remained painting when she left the room. "And now, Conway," said Mrs. Broughton, "I suppose that all is over?"
"I don't know what you mean by all being over."
"No,—of course not. You look at it in another light, no doubt. Everything is beginning for you. But you must pardon me, for my heart is distracted,—distracted,—distracted!" Then she sat down upon the floor, and burst into tears. What was he to do? He thought that the woman should either give him up altogether, or not give him up. All this fuss about it was irrational! He would not have made love to Clara Van Siever in her room if she had not told him to do so!
"Maria," he said, in a very grave voice, "any sacrifice that is required on my part on your behalf I am ready to make."