“And I must e'en hustle you out of the room, my dear,” said the painter. “Her Grace is not the most patient of dames when it comes to waiting on a painter.”
“Or on a painter's sitter, particularly when that sitter is only an actress. Ah, Sir Godfrey, you might permit me to remain in secret that I may know how a Duchess conducts herself upon occasions.”
“Tut—tut! Would you play a comedy in my house, you baggage?” cried the painter, pushing her playfully to the door. “Fly—fly—before it is too late.”
“Ah, Sir Godfrey, you are indeed unkind. Prithee how may I hope to enact the part of a duchess in the playhouse if I am not permitted to witness one in the life?”
“Off—off—I say! You will have to trust to your own instinct, which I take to be a faithful enough guide in your case, my dear Barry. And so farewell to you.” Still protesting, and very prettily pouting, the actress suffered herself to be gently forced from the room into the square, inner hall, which was lighted by a dome of coloured glass. Sir Godfrey, kissing the tip of one of his fingers, bowed her an adieu, but without speaking, as he held up the tapestry portière.
Mrs. Barry replied with a modified courtesy, and turned as if to make her way to the outer hall; but the moment Sir Godfrey let fall the tapestry, she returned on tiptoe, and moving it an inch to one side, peered through into the studio. She saw the painter hurrying from the large apartment into the small retiring-room at the farther end, and the moment that he disappeared she was back like a flash into the studio and in hiding behind a full-length canvas that leant against an easel in a dark corner.
Five seconds were sufficient to carry out the plan which she had conceived on the impulse of the moment. Had it occupied seven she would have been discovered, for Sir Godfrey had merely entered his wardrobe to throw off one coat and put on another. He returned to the studio, and immediately rang his bell. When the servant entered, he said: