“Which ladyship, sir—Lady Susan or Lady Sarah?”
“Both, madam.” The Irishman was bowing with his hand on his heart. “But the print—my poor likeness?”
“That is the secret, sir; but you will not betray it when I tell you that Lady Susan entrusted that print to me in order that I might make a copy in miniature for her to present to her father, Lord Ilchester. You are his favourite actor, Mr. O'Brien, as no doubt you are aware.”
“'Tis the first I heard of it, madam.” There was a suggestion of mortification in the actor's tone.
“Ah, 'twould be impossible for Mr. O'Brien to keep an account of all his conquests. But now you can understand how it is that her ladyship wishes her intention to be kept a secret: she means to add to the acceptability of her gift by presenting it as a surprise. But her secret is safe in your keeping, sir?”
“I swear to it, madam.” Mr. O'Brien spoke mechanically. His hand was on his chin: he was clearly musing upon some question that perplexed him. He took a turn up and down the studio, and then said:
“Madam, it has just occurred to me that you, as a great artist——”
“Nay, sir,” interposed the blushing painteress.
“I will not take back a word, madam,” said the actor, holding up one inexorable hand. “I say that surely so great an artist as you should disdain to do the work of a mere copyist. Why should not you confer upon me the honour of sitting to you for the miniature portrait?”
“Oh, sir, that is the one favour which I meant to ask of you, if my courage had not failed me.”