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 being all 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.’

’No sir; the sacrifices shall all be made by me.  It is the part of a woman to be ever sacrificial!’ Poor Mrs Dobbs Broughton!  ’You shall give up nothing.  The world is at your feet, and you shall have everything—­youth, beauty, wealth, station, love—­love; friendship also, if you will accept it from one so poor, so broken, so secluded as I shall be.’  At each of the last words there had been a desperate sob; and as she was still crouching in the middle of the room, looking up into Dalrymple’s face while he stood over her, the scene was one which had much in it that transcended the doings of everyday life, much that would be ever memorable, and much, I have no doubt, that was thoroughly enjoyed by the principal actor.  As for Conway Dalrymple, he was so second-rate a personage in the whole thing, that it mattered little whether he enjoyed it or not.  I don’t think he did enjoy it.  ’And now, Conway,’ she said, ’I will give you some advice.  And when in after-days you shall remember this interview, and reflect how that advice was given you—­with what solemnity.’—­here she clasped both her hands together—­’I think that you will follow it.  Clara Van Siever will now become your wife.’

‘I do not know that at all,’ said Dalrymple.

‘Clara Van Siever will now become your wife,’ repeated Mrs Broughton in a louder voice, impatient of opposition.  ’Love her.  Cleave to her.  Make her flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone.  But rule her!  Yes, rule her!  Let her be your second self, but not your first self.  Rule her!  Love her.  Cleave to her.  Do not leave her alone, to feed on her own thoughts as I have done—­as I have been forced to do.  Now go.  No, Conway, not a word; I will not hear a word.  You must go, or I must.’  Then she rose quickly from her lowly attitude, and prepared herself for a dart to the door.  It was better by far that he should go, and so he went.