The Conte rose from his seat, and Dale started up.
“No, no; don’t move,” said the Conte. “I was only about to look round while you thought the matter over. Ah! you object? Good. I will reserve myself for your show day. Pardon, a thousand times.”
He resumed his seat, smiling, while in agony Dale thought of the great picture not twenty feet from where his visitor had stood.
“My proposal troubles you, I see; but why let it, my friend? Let us consider it as men of the world—as we did at first. It will do you good as an artist—it will do me good amongst my friends, for I shall be proud to see the face of my beautiful wife—a lady of society—upon the Academy walls. We made our little arrangement—I will not insult you by talking of money—and all was well. Then came this little pique. I affronted you by some thoughtless remark, and you retired.”
Dale was about to speak, but the Conte interrupted him.
“One word, my friend, and I have done. It is my wife’s wish that the picture should be finished; it is mine. I apologise as one gentleman to another. Now, say that I am pardoned, and that you will do it.”
The temptation was terribly strong. This man begged him to come; it meant endless freedom, the run of the house, and constant meetings with Valentina; but Dale’s manly instincts rose in revolt against so degrading an intimacy. He and the Conte could only be deadly enemies, and he rose slowly from his seat.
“It is impossible, sir,” he said. “I thank you for your consideration and your apology, but I must hold to my decision. I cannot—I will not commence the portrait again.”
“You are too hasty, Mr Dale. Take time. With your permission I will smoke another cigarette. Let us talk of other things.”
“No, sir,” replied Armstrong; “let us talk of this, and let me tell you plainly that I cannot and will not undertake this commission.”