But Flora stood inexorable, straight and black, crowned with her helmet of gleaming hair; and, with her hands behind her, looked over Clara's head through the window into the garden. She would not help Clara gloss over this ugly fact.
A curious grimace distorted Clara's features, as if with an effort she gulped something bitter, and then into the silence her voice fell—a gasp, a breath—"Fifty thousand."
All sums had become the same to Flora, even her year's income. As if she were verily afraid Clara might take it back, she turned precipitately to a writing-table. But Clara had risen, and though still pale, in a measure she seemed to have recovered herself.
"Wait. I can't give it to you now. I will meet you here in two hours and bring the picture. You can let me have it then."
"Oh, two hours!" Flora objected.
But Clara was firm. "No, I can't bring it sooner. It will make no difference in your affair." She was panting in her excitement. "In two hours you shall have the picture here. I promise you."
Flora wondered. Depth below depth! She could never seem to get to the bottom of this business. There was only one thing she could count on, and that was Clara's impeccable honor in living up to a bargain. Flora sealed that bargain now. She held out her fluttering slip of paper, still wet with ink.
"Very well, in two hours—but take this now. I would rather you did."
Clara reached the tips of her fingers, touched the paper—and then it was no longer in Flora's hand, and Clara was walking from her across the room.