“Yes; you know her; you met her at our house. My wife’s bosom friend.”
“I remember Lady Grayson, of course, perfectly.”
“And you are painting her portrait?”
“I regret to say that you have been misinformed, sir.”
“But—how strange! Lady Grayson told us that she was going to ask you to undertake the commission. Of course—yes—and she said, laughingly—I remember now, perfectly—that she should visit you at your studio, be a most perfect sitter, and that there would be no giant—no, no, it was ogre of a husband—to pass criticisms and offend the artist.”
He laughed merrily as he spoke, and twisted his cane about in a peculiar way, suggesting to Armstrong that he meant to strike with it at first; and then, as he saw a gold garter-like band around it about six inches from the knob, his heart gave one throb, for he felt certain that there was a keen rapier-like blade concealed within.
But he spoke quite calmly.
“Lady Grayson has been premature in her announcement, Conte. I am under no promise to paint any such portrait, neither shall I undertake the commission.”
“Body of Bacchus!” cried the Conte, laughing, “how droll! Truth is more strange than romance, as you people say. Come, now, confess you have been too scrupulous—too secretive.—My dear Lady Grayson, this is wonderful. Your name was on our lips.”
For as he was speaking, Keren-Happuch ushered in the fashionably dressed woman, gave Dale an imploring look, which plainly said, “Forgive me,” glanced at the fastened door, next at the dais, and then disappeared.