The picture still progressed up in Mrs Dobbs Broughton’s room, and the secret was still kept, or supposed to be kept.  Miss Van Siever was, at any rate, certain that her mother had heard nothing of it, and Mrs Broughton reported from day to day that her husband had not as yet interfered.  Nevertheless there was in these days a great gloom upon the Dobbs Broughton household, so much so that Conway Dalrymple had more than once suggested to Mrs Broughton that the work should be discontinued.  But the mistress of the house would not consent to this.  In answer to these offers, she was wont to declare in somewhat mysterious language, that any misery coming upon herself was a matter of moment to nobody—­hardly even to herself, as she was quite prepared to encounter moral and social death without delay, if not an absolute physical demise; as to which latter alternative, she seemed to think that even that might not be so far distant as some people chose to believe.  What was the cause of the gloom over the house neither Conway Dalrymple nor Miss Van Siever understood, and to speak the truth Mrs Broughton did not quite understand the cause herself.  She knew well enough, no doubt, that her husband came home always sullen, and sometimes tipsy, and that things were not going well in the City.  She had never understood much about the City, being satisfied with an assurance that had come to her in the early days from her friends, that there was a mine of wealth in Hook Court, from whence would always come for her use, house and furniture, a carriage and some horses, dresses and jewels, which latter, if not quite real, should be manufactured with the best sham substitute known.  Soon after her brilliant marriage with Mr Dobbs Broughton, she had discovered that the carriage and horses, and the sham jewels, did not lift her so completely into a terrestrial paradise as she had taught herself to expect that they would do.  Her brilliant drawing-room, with Dobbs Broughton for a companion, was not an elysium.  But though she had found out early in her married life that something was still wanting to her, she had by no means confessed to herself that the carriage and horses and sham jewels were bad, and it can hardly be said that she had repented.  She had endeavoured to patch up matters with a little romance, and then had fallen upon Conway Dalrymple—­meaning no harm.  Indeed, love with her, as it never could have meant much good, was not likely to mean much harm.  That somebody should pretend to love her, to which pretence she might reply by a pretence of friendship—­this was the little excitement which she craved, and by which she had once flattered herself that something of an elysium might yet be created for her.  Mr Dobbs Broughton had unreasonably expressed a dislike to this innocent amusement—­very unreasonably, knowing, as he ought to have known, that he himself did so very little towards providing the necessary elysium by any qualities of his own.  For a few