She turned away quickly and dropped the skin from her shoulders.
"You will not stay a little longer? You will not let me try?" Gouache seemed disappointed.
"Impossible," she answered, putting on her hat and beginning to arrange her veil before a mirror.
Orsino watched her as she stood, her arms uplifted, in an attitude which is almost always graceful, even for an otherwise ungraceful woman. Madame d'Aragona was perhaps a little too short, but she was justly proportioned and appeared to be rather slight, though the tight-fitting sleeves of her frock betrayed a remarkably well turned arm. Not seeing her face, one might not have singled her out of many as a very striking woman, for she had neither the stateliness of Orsino's mother, nor the enchanting grace which distinguished Gouache's wife. But no one could look into her eyes without feeling that she was very far from being an ordinary woman.
"Quite impossible," she repeated, as she tucked in the ends of her veil and then turned upon the two men. "The next sitting? Whenever you like—to-morrow—the day after—name the time."
"When to-morrow is possible, there is no choice," said Gouache, "unless you will come again to-day."
"To-morrow, then, good-bye." She held out her hand.
"There are sketches on each of my fingers, Madame—principally, of tigers."
"Good-bye then—consider your hand shaken. Are you going, Prince?"
Orsino had taken his hat and was standing beside her.