She hastily removed all traces of her disguise, placing the wig and apron behind a marble pedestal that bore a reproduction of the flying Mercury. She paused at the door for some time before returning to the studio, and when at last she opened it she did so very cautiously, putting her head just beyond the portière at first. Then she closed the door behind her and advanced. She did not fail to notice the little movement of the curtain at the farther end of the studio. Then she gave a fine sigh and threw herself into a chair.
“Heigh ho!” she said, in a tone that she meant to be audible in every part of the room. “Heigh ho! 't is weary waiting for one's love. But my love—my hero—is worthy to be waited for by empresses. Yet, if I had not his picture to look upon now I vow I should feel melancholic. Ah, Sir Godfrey. He has dealt as harshly with the face of my Duke as he hath dealt gently with that ancient harridan, the Duchess.” (She saw the distant portière quiver.) “Great heavens!” she continued, rising and standing in front of the portrait of the Duchess. “Great heavens! is it a matter of wonder that His Grace should be sick unto death of that face of hers? All the flattery of the painter cannot hide the malevolence of her countenance. The Queen perceived it long ago, and yet they say that she hopes to regain the favour of her royal mistress!
“Poor creature! But indeed she is to be pitied. She hath lost the favour of her Queen and the heart of her spouse. Ah, my hero—my beloved—your heart is mine—all mine. How oft have I not heard your sweet words telling me that—how oft? But why are you not here to tell it to me now? Why—ah, at last—at last!”
A knock had sounded at the side door in the midst of her passionate inquiries, and she almost flew to the door, “Ah, at last—at last you have come!” she said in a fervent whisper as the Duke entered.
“I have come,” he replied, still holding her hand. He had no choice left in the matter. She did not withdraw her hand after she had given it to him. It would scarcely have done for him to cast it from him. “You are sure that Sir Godfrey has not yet returned?”
“I am sure of it,” said she. “Would I be here with you alone if he had returned?”
“No, no; of course not,” said the Duke. “But would I not come far if only to press this little hand?”
His experience of women had taught him that a little flattery is never out of place with them. He supposed it was out of sheer nervousness that Mrs. Barry had failed to withdraw her hand.
She did not withdraw it even now, however. It was only when they had walked side by side half way across the room that she withdrew her hand. She saw that a large picture on an easel was between them and the distant portiere.
“You have come—you have trusted me,” she murmured, with her eyes cast down.