As he spoke he drew back a curtain, and the light fell upon a small picture painted with greater care, and more elaborately finished than any which Laura had yet seen. It represented a girl of exquisite beauty in a kneeling attitude, with her arms flung sportively around the neck of a magnificent dog, her golden tresses falling over and mingling with the waves of his shaggy coat.
As Laura gazed her colour went and came quickly, and her eyes seemed to grow to the canvas: both girl and dog were portraits done to the life, and she recognised each of them immediately—her wild conjecture was then the truth!—her determination was instantly taken. Seating herself as if to examine the picture more nearly, she contrived by one or two artful questions to set the garrulous old man talking again, and forgetful of the flight of moments, drew him on to relate to her how the Signore had discovered that his youngest born, the son of his old age, possessed a talent for painting, and how the Signore was giving him lessons, and the talent was daily developing under such favourable circumstances, until the old man had begun to hope that the boy might succeed better than his father had done, and retrieve the shipwrecked fortunes of the Antonellis.
While he was yet in the midst of his recital the clock struck five, and almost at the same moment a quick, active footstep was heard bounding up the staircase, and the deep tones of a man’s voice exclaimed—
“Antonelli, Antonelli, dove sei buon amico?”
With a horror-stricken glance at his companion, the old man was about to rush precipitately out of the room, when Laura, quietly laying her hand upon his arm, said—
“There is nothing to be alarmed about! bisogna ch’io gli parli—tell the Signore that an old friend is waiting to see him.”
As she spoke a tall, graceful figure appeared at the door of the study, and stopped in amazement on perceiving how it was tenanted. In no way embarrassed by the situation in which she found herself, Laura rose from her seat with the same degree of quiet, courteous, self-possession with which she would have received a guest in her own drawing-room, and advancing towards the new-comer, said, holding out her hand—
“Your kindness will pardon the little stratagem by which I have sought to verify my conjecture, that in Signore Luigi I should have the pleasure of recognising an old friend.”
“Leave us, Antonelli,” exclaimed his employer sternly; then carefully closing the door, he turned towards his guest, and bowing coldly, inquired, “To what am I indebted for the honour of a visit from Mrs. Leicester?”
“To the fact that I was vain enough to fancy the pleasure I feel in meeting an old friend might be mutual; and that Mr. Arundel would not resent the liberty I have taken in disregarding the regulations of the famous Signore Luigi: if I am so unfortunate as to have committed a mistake, it is soon remedied,” she continued quickly, finding that Lewis—(as we have not intended any but the most transparent mystification in regard to the identity of the painter and our hero, we may as well call him by his proper name)—remained silent; as she spoke she rose and advanced towards the door. Her look and words recalled Lewis’s wandering thoughts; he took her hand, reconducted her to her seat, and then in a tone of deep feeling said—