“Of course I mean it,” he answered. “If only I can do you justice, I think it ought to be the portrait of the year. I have been studying you for a long time in an indefinite sort of way, and I think that I have some good ideas.”
Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell laughed softly. Densham, although not a great artist, was the most fashionable portrait painter of the minute, and he had the knack of giving a chic touch to his women—of investing them with a certain style without the sacrifice of similitude. He refused quite as many commissions as he accepted, and he could scarcely have flattered Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell more than by his request. She was delightfully amiable.
“You are a dear old thing,” she said, beaming upon him. “What shall I wear? That yellow satin gown that you like, or say you like, so much?”
He discussed the question with her gravely. It was not until he rose to go that he actually broached the question which had been engrossing all his thoughts.
“By the bye,” he said, “I wanted to ask you something. You know Harcutt?”
She nodded. Of course she knew Harcutt. Were her first suspicions correct! Had he some other reason for this visit of his?
“Well,” Densham went on, “he is immensely interested in some people who were at that stupid reception last night. He tried to get an introduction but he couldn’t find any one who knew them, and he doesn’t know the Princess well enough to ask her. He thought that he saw you speaking to the man, so I promised that when I saw you I would ask about them.”
“I spoke to a good many men,” she said. “What is his name?”
“Sabin—Mr. Sabin; and there is a girl, his daughter, or niece, I suppose.”
Was it Densham’s fancy or had she indeed turned a shade paler. The little be-jewelled hand, which had been resting close to his, suddenly buried itself in the cushions. Densham, who was watching her closely, was conscious of a hardness about her mouth which he had never noticed before. She was silent some time before she answered him.