What would he not have given, at that moment, to have had courage to say, "She is to be my wife;" but the magnificent fury of the woman before him, and the recollection of the shameful words of love he had spoken to her, overwhelmed him.
"She is a—a Miss Delorme, I believe; a sitter of mine," he managed to say at last.
"You believe! You lie! You know who she is, and you love her! You love that nun-faced baby! I heard your words. You believe—you"—
"Evelin, stop!"
"Don't speak to me, you traitor! 'Your precious darling.' Oh, I could kill her! I will kill her!"
He could not understand this wild fury, that seemed to be half inspired by a sort of terror. She had turned to the portrait again and was examining it, oblivious, for the moment, to all else. Then suddenly she turned upon him again with blazing eyes.
"I will kill her!" she hissed. "I could kill her with that," and she pointed to the jeweled stiletto on the wall.
She was so magnificent in her rage that he could not help admiring her through it all. The love for him which had aroused this tempest was so fierce that he felt his savage blood beginning to throb with an answering glow. He felt that once more he was about to be a traitor to all that was good within him. The ground was slipping from under his feet. The glamour of her voluptuous beauty was ruling his brain like the fumes of liquor. His eyes, too, were beginning to shine fiercely, but not with anger.
"Evelin," he said, "listen. You know I love you and have from the first. She is nothing to me. The words that you overheard were addressed only to the picture. It is my masterpiece. I was not thinking of the original." And down in his heart the small voice was whispering, "Coward—traitor—fool!"
But the hot blood of passion was sweeping through his veins, and he heeded it not. He put out his hand and laid it upon her arm.