“But, my dear friend, you did undertake it.”
“And repented almost at once,” said Armstrong bitterly.
“You English—I mean you Americans—are too hard and decisive,” said the Conte, with a smile and shrug. “Ah, as you know, everything depends upon the diplomat. I am a poor ambassador. I should have brought Madame the Contessa here to plead to you.”
Armstrong could not suppress a start, and he looked keenly at the Conte, whose eyes seemed to be fixed searchingly upon his, as if to read the secret thoughts of his heart. And now he felt sure that all this was subterfuge—a means of gaining time for some reason. He had tracked his wife there, and was waiting for the moment when the eruption ought to break forth; and a quarrel with a foreigner and for such a cause could only mean one thing.
“Ah,” said the Conte gaily, “the mention of madame has, I see, its effect. Say, if she comes and pleads you will yield?”
“This man is too subtle for me,” thought Armstrong. “He is playing with and torturing me before he strikes. Heavens! what have I done to bring me into such a position?”
“Come, you are giving way,” cried the Conte gaily, “and I may go back soon—after our friendly chat, as you people call it, and tell her ladyship that I have made our peace.”
“No, sir,” began Armstrong, keeping well upon his guard, in the full conviction that there was another motive for the visit, and determined to strike his visitor down if he approached the inner room. But he was interrupted again.
“By the way—in passing—apropos of portraits—Lady Grayson’s—is it commenced?”
“Lady Grayson’s?”