The model stopped suddenly, and he turned to see that she was gazing fixedly at the uncovered face upon the canvas, as if struck by the intense gaze of the goddess’s eyes.
It was almost momentary, that pause. Then she continued her way to the dais, and mounted it to resume her familiar attitude, and, once more, Dale began to paint; a quarter of an hour before about to destroy, now eagerly bent upon finishing the task, while the piercing eyes gleamed through the veil, and seemed to pierce him.
“It is fate!” he muttered, as those eyes fixed his, meeting them through the veil; but was it lovingly tempting him, or watching him in dread—a dread born of the doubt he inspired at the last visit?
He could not tell, but everything of the past died away in that present, and in a voice which he hardly knew as his own, he said softly—
“Why were you so angry with me last time?”
There was no reply, but the eyes gleamed distrustfully through the veil.
“You are angry still,” he continued. “Was it so great an offence to ask you to discard your veil?”
“Monsieur is wasting time,” was the reply, and he went on using his brush angrily for a few minutes.
“Tell me,” he said at last, “why you are so obstinate? Do you not wish me to see your face?”
She shook her head quickly, and he watched her, telling himself that there was something coquettish in the act.