The butler met him with a polite but decided: “Miss Eggleston is not receiving.”
“Take her that card,” said Gregg. “I’ll wait here for an answer.”
The erect figure of the painter, his perfect address, coupled with the air of command which always seemed a part of him, produced an instantaneous curve in the butler’s spine.
“Step into the library, sir,” he said in a softer tone as he pushed aside the heavy portières for Adam to enter.
Gregg entered the curtain-muffled room with its marble statues, huge Sèvres vases and ponderous gold frames, swept a glance over the blue satin sofas and cumbersome chairs in the hope of finding Madeleine curled up somewhere among the heap of cushions, and then, hat in hand, took up his position in front of the cheerless, freshly varnished hearth to await that young lady’s coming. What he would say or how he would approach the subject nearest to his heart would depend on her mental attitude. That she loved Phil as dearly as he loved her there was no question. That she had begun to suffer for loss of him was equally sure. A leaf from his own past told him that.
Again the butler’s step was heard in the hall; there came a sound of an opening door, and Mr. Eggleston entered.
As he approached the dealer’s description of his white hair and red face—a subject Franz Hal would have loved—came back to the painter.
Adam advanced to meet him with that perfect poise which distinguished him in surprises of this kind. “Mr. Eggleston, is it not?”
“Yes, and whom have I the pleasure of addressing?”—glancing at the card in his hand.
“I am Adam Gregg. We were to meet some time ago, when I was to paint your portrait. This time I came to see your daughter Madeleine.”