‘I daresay nobody did,’ said Mrs Van Siever; ’but here I am, nevertheless.’

‘Madam,’ said Mrs Dobbs Broughton, ’you might at any rate have gone through the ceremony of having yourself announced by the servant.’

‘Madam,’ said the old woman attempting to mimic the tone of the other, ’I thought that on such a very particular occasion as this I might be allowed to announce myself.  You tomfool, you why don’t you take that turban off?’ Then Clara, with slow and graceful motion, unwound the turban.  If Dalrymple really meant what he had said and would stick to it, she need not mind being called a tomfool by her mother.

‘Conway, I am afraid that our last sitting is disturbed,’ said Mrs Broughton, with her little laugh.

‘Conway’s last sitting is certainly disturbed,’ said Mrs Van Siever, and then she mimicked the laugh.  ’And you’ll all be disturbed—­I can tell you that.  What an ass you must be to go on with this kind of thing, after what I said to you yesterday!  Do you know that he got beastly drunk in the City last night, and that he is drunk now, while you are going on with your tomfooleries?’ Upon hearing this Mrs Dobbs Broughton fainted in Dalrymple’s arms.

Hitherto the artist had not said a word, and had hardly known what part in it would best become him to play.  If he intended to marry Clara—­and he certainly did intend to marry her if she would have him—­it might be as well not to quarrel with Mrs Van Siever.  At any rate there was nothing in Mrs Van Siever’s intrusion, disagreeable that it was, which need make him take up his sword to do battle with her.  But now, as he held Mrs Broughton in his arms, and as the horrid words which the old woman had spoken rung in his ears, he could not refrain himself form uttering reproach.  ’You ought not to have told her in this way, before other people, even if it be true,’ said Conway.

’Leave me to be my own judge of what I ought to do, if you please, sir.  If she had any feeling at all, what I told her yesterday would have kept her from all this.  But some people have no feeling, and will go on being tomfools though the house is on fire.’  As these words were spoken, Mrs Broughton fainted more persistently than ever—­so that Dalrymple was convinced that whether she felt or not, at any rate she heard.  He had now dragged her across the room, and laid her upon the sofa, and Clara had come to her assistance.  ’I daresay you think me very hard because I speak plainly, but there are things much harder than plain speaking.  How much do you expect to be paid, sir, for this picture of my girl?’

‘I do not expect to be paid for it at all,’ said Dalrymple.

‘And who is it to belong to?’

‘It belongs to me at present.’

’Then, sir, it mustn’t belong to you any longer.  It won’t do for you to have a picture of my girl to hang up in your painting-room for all your friends to come and make their jokes about, nor yet to make a show of it in any of your exhibitions.  My daughter has been a fool, and I can’t help it.  If you’ll tell me what’s the cost, I’ll pay you; then I’ll have the picture home, and I’ll treat it as it deserves.’