"Say, what should I not be if Cornelius O'Reilly had the power?"
"And why should not Cornelius O'Reilly have the power?"
Her tone was scarcely above indifference, and yet hard to witness and to know; Cornelius had never looked half so delighted when I boldly assigned him a rank among the princes and masters of his art, as he now seemed with these few ambiguous words of his mistress. He started up to work like one who has received a fresh stimulus to exertion.
"I am still tired," coldly said Miriam.
"I do not want you yet."
"Why work then?"
"Oh! Miriam, must not my beautiful Medora progress?"
"Your beautiful Medora!" she echoed, with something like scorn passing across her face, and as if she thought that Medora interfered with the rights of Miriam.
Cornelius was standing before the easel; I saw him smile at the image it bore.
"She is beautiful," he said in a low tone, "though I say it that should not, and though I know you will never grant me that she is."