"I certainly do wish it, but I won't trust to you. If it's not sent to my house at once you'll hear from me through my lawyers."
Then Dalrymple deliberately opened his penknife and slit the canvas across, through the middle of the picture each way. Clara, as she saw him do it, felt that in truth she loved him. "There, Mrs. Van Siever," he said; "now you can take the bits home with you in your basket if you wish it." At this moment, as the rent canvas fell and fluttered upon the stretcher, there came a loud voice of lamentation from the sofa, a groan of despair and a shriek of wrath. "Very fine indeed," said Mrs. Van Siever. "When ladies faint they always ought to have their eyes about them. I see that Mrs. Broughton understands that."
"Take her away, Conway—for God's sake take her away," said Mrs. Broughton.
"I shall take myself away very shortly," said Mrs. Van Siever, "so you needn't trouble Mr. Conway about that. Not but what I thought the gentleman's name was Mr. something else."
"My name is Conway Dalrymple," said the artist.
"Then I suppose you must be her brother, or her cousin, or something of that sort?" said Mrs. Van Siever.
"Take her away," screamed Mrs. Dobbs Broughton.
"Wait a moment, madam. As you've chopped up your handiwork there, Mr. Conway Dalrymple, and as I suppose my daughter has been more to blame than anybody else—"
"She has not been to blame at all," said Dalrymple.
"That's my affair, and not yours," said Mrs. Van Siever, very sharply. "But as you've been at all this trouble, and have now chopped it up, I don't mind paying you for your time and paints; only I shall be glad to know how much it will come to?"