Sara had cast herself into a chair, and with her hands before her face, was controlling her sobs as best she might. Never before had she felt thus humbled and scorched, and burnt up, as it were. It was terrible, yet not one pang of anger or resentment mingled with her emotion. She knew that what he said was just—no more, no less; and being noble, she liked him the better for his having said it. There was no carping, no prejudice or temper in what he said—no scolding for the sake of rousing her to retort or to deprecate; there was the sorrowful, stern condemnation of one who knew she had belied herself, and had sufficient regard for her to tell her so, and she bowed to it. He did not speak for a little time, and gradually her sobs grew quieter. At last he stopped before her, and said: ‘Miss Ford!’ Sara removed her hands from before her face, picked up her handkerchief, dried her eyes with it, and looked at him. His eyes were full of kindness; they were not hard; his face was not the face of a hard judge, and his voice was soothing as he said: ‘I do not beg you to forgive me for what I have said to you. If you are what I take you to be, that is not necessary. I do not say I am sorry to have wounded you. I honour you so much as to feel sure that you appreciate my reasons for so speaking. But I ask you, do you know yourself the reason of this quick and lamentable falling off?’ ‘Yes, I know it,’ she replied, looking at him with a face pale indeed, but with eyes which did not waver. ‘The reason is, that I have dreamed of myself and my own happiness to the exclusion of everything else. I have let my love master me, instead of being myself master of my love. And I am punished for it.’ ‘And will you go on dreaming? Will you not rather try to awaken?’ Sara looked at him, and thought of Jerome—of the love she bore him. Subdue that, make it bondslave to her art, second to something else? She knew that if she meant to be what she had all along striven for—a great artist, that she must do so; the question was, could she? Had she not been in reality the slave of her love for Wellfield, since it had arisen, since he had told her he loved her? Not confessedly so, but indeed, and in fact? Yes, it was so. It suddenly dawned upon her mind that such love might be absorbing—might be exquisite at the time; but her nobler self told her that it was not good to be bound hand and foot in the bonds of this passion, that it was unworthy, that she had yielded to the infatuation that paralyses, not the love that inspires. ‘I cannot be free in a moment,’ said she, ‘but I can endeavour to be so. I will try, and I give you my hand upon it.’ With a simple, proud gesture, she placed her hand in his. He knew what she meant. That love of hers was not to be given up; she held it holy, justifiable. But she was no longer to be its bondslave. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘it is doubtful, but if there is a woman who can do it, she can.’ He grasped her hand firmly.