"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."