“No!” he groaned, “she is not to blame. I shall never see her more, thank Heaven! and in time the recollection will die out.”
His eyes reverted to the picture, as this thought held him for the moment, and he again laughed bitterly and cried aloud, while gazing at the beautiful figure which inspiration and the work of his brush had placed upon the canvas.
“Die out, while she is there to renew my passion hour by hour, minute by minute! Curse the picture!” he raged. “Why did I ever conceive the vile thought?”
He stepped to it and tore off the paper which covered the face.
The next moment he had stepped back, startled and wondering at the perfection of his art, as Lady Dellatoria’s eyes seemed to be gazing passionately into his.
He shivered and turned away, holding one hand to his brow.
“I am ill,” he said, in a low, muttering tone, “unstrung, half wild. Well, this shall be the first step toward a cure;” and, taking a large Spanish knife from among the knick-knacks upon the table, he felt the point and edge, stepped forward, and was in the act of thrusting the blade through the canvas close to the frame, when the door-handle rattled, and the grimy face of Keren-Happuch was thrust in.
“She’s come again,” said the girl gleefully.
“The lady who was here yesterday?” cried Dale, throwing the knife from him.
“No, sir; her!” cried the girl. “She’s coming up now.”