“I shall not fail, madam,” said the painter. “And I will not ask your Grace to sit to me until Friday. I have to be in Richmond on Thursday.”
He held back the portière for her exit, and then followed her through the domed hall to the apartment where her maid awaited her.
On his return to the studio he found himself face to face with Mrs. Barry. For an instant he stood speechless. Then, with a glance behind him, he whispered:
“How did you come hither, in the name of heaven?”
“In a name which you are bound to respect—the name of art,” she replied.
“I sought but a lesson, and I have not sought in vain. A duchess! Good Lord! These be your duchesses! The manners of a kitchen wench allied to the language of a waterman. A duchess!”
“Madam—Mistress Barry—”
“Oh, the poor Duke! How oft have not I heard that His Grace looks forward to the hottest campaign with joy? Oh, I can well believe it. And the look of pensiveness on Her Grace's face—observe it, most faithful of limners.”
She stood pointing to the portrait of the Duchess in a stage attitude of scorn. Sir Godfrey, as he looked at her, felt that he should like to paint her in that attitude for the benefit of posterity. Then she burst into a scornful laugh, at which he became more serious than ever. In another moment, however, she had introduced a note of merriment into her laughter, and in spite of the fact that he had been extremely angry on finding that she had been in hiding he could not help joining in her laughter.
“The pensive Duchess!” she cried. “Nay, rather, the pensive Duke, my friend. Paint him as 'Il Penseroso'—the Duke who had eyes only for the graces of Her Grace—who had ears only for her dulcet phrases—who snored in the face of the actress who was ogling him from the stage. Grant me patience, heaven! If I fail to bring him to my feet in the sight of that woman, may I never tread the stage more! I have a scheme, Sir Godfrey, which only needs your help to—”