“Yes, it is very good; very good, indeed,” she said, standing before the easel, and looking at the half-completed work. “I do not know that you ever did anything better.”
“I never can tell myself till a picture is finished whether it is going to be good or not,” said Dalrymple, thinking really of his picture and of nothing else.
“I am sure this will be good,” she said, “and I suppose it is because you have thrown so much heart into it. It is not mere industry that will produce good work, nor yet skill, nor even genius: more than this is required. The heart of the artist must be thrust with all its gushing tides into the performance.” By this time he knew all the tones of her voice and their various meanings, and immediately became aware that at the present moment she was intent upon something beyond the picture. She was preparing for a little scene, and was going to give him some advice. He understood it all, but as he was really desirous of working at his canvas, and was rather averse to having a scene at that moment, he made a little attempt to disconcert her.
“It is the heart that gives success,” she said, while he was considering how he might best put an extinguisher upon her romance for the occasion.
“Not at all, Mrs. Broughton; success depends on elbow-grease.”
“On what, Conway?”
“On elbow-grease—hard work, that is—and I must work hard now if I mean to take advantage of today’s sitting. The truth is, I don’t give enough hours of work to it.” And he leaned upon his stick, and daubed away briskly at the background, and then stood for a moment looking at his canvas with his head a little on one side, as though he could not withdraw his attention for a moment from the thing he was doing.
“You mean to say, Conway, that you would rather that I should not speak to you.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Broughton, I did not mean that at all.”
“I won’t interrupt you at your work. What I have to say is perhaps of no great moment. Indeed, words between you and me never can have much importance now. Can they, Conway?”
“I don’t see that at all,” said he, still working away with his brush.
“Do you not? I do. They should never amount to more—they can never amount to more than the common ordinary courtesies of life; what I call the greetings and good-byings of conversation.” She said this in a low, melancholy tone of voice, not intending to be in any degree jocose. “How seldom is it that conversation between ordinary friends goes beyond that.”
“Don’t you think it does?” said Conway, stepping back and taking another look at his picture. “I find myself talking to all manner of people about all manner of things.”
“You are different from me. I cannot talk to all manner of people.”
“Politics, you know, and art, and a little scandal, and the wars, with a dozen other things, make talking easy enough, I think. I grant you this, that it is very often a great bore. Hardly a day passes that I don’t wish to cut out somebody’s tongue.”
“Do you wish to cut out my tongue, Conway?”
He began to perceive that she was determined to talk about herself, and that there was no remedy. He dreaded it, not because he did not like the woman, but from a conviction that she was going to make some comparison between herself and Clara Van Siever. In his ordinary humour he liked a little pretence at romance, and was rather good at that sort of lovemaking which in truth means anything but love. But just now he was really thinking of matrimony, and had on this very morning acknowledged to himself that he had become sufficiently attached to Clara Van Siever to justify him in asking her to be his wife. In his present mood he was not anxious for one of those tilts with blunted swords and half-severed lances in the lists of Cupid of which Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was so fond. Nevertheless, if she insisted that he should now descend into the arena and go through the paraphernalia of a mock tournament, he must obey her. It is the hardship of men that when called upon by women for romance, they are bound to be romantic, whether the opportunity serves them or does not. A man must produce romance, or at least submit to it, when duly summoned, even though he should have a sore-throat or a headache. He is a brute if he decline such an encounter—and feels that, should he so decline persistently, he will ever after be treated as a brute. There are many Potiphar’s wives who never dream of any mischief, and Josephs who are very anxious to escape, though they are asked to return only whisper for whisper. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had asked him whether he wished that her tongue should be cut out, and he had of course replied that her words had always been a joy to him—never a trouble. It occurred to him as he made his little speech that it would only have served her right if he had answered her quite in another strain; but she was a woman, and was young and pretty, and was entitled to flattery. “They have always been a joy to me,” he said, repeating his last words as he strove to continue his work.
“A deadly joy,” she replied, not quite knowing what she herself meant. “A deadly joy, Conway. I wish with all my heart that we had never known each other.”
“I do not. I will never wish away the happiness of my life, even should it be followed by misery.”
“You are a man, and if trouble comes upon you, you can bear it on your own shoulders. A woman suffers more, just because another’s shoulders may have to bear the burden.”
“When she has got a husband, you mean?”
“Yes—when she
