“I do so love pictures!” she cried. “But you need not go, Conte. I will stand aside till you have finished with Mr Dale.”
“Conte Dellatoria has finished his proposal to me, madam,” said Armstrong firmly. “I regret, sir, that I must hold to my decision.”
“Oh!” cried Lady Grayson, “don’t say that you have refused to continue my dearest friend’s portrait!”
“Yes, madam, I have declined decisively.”
“Oh, but that is too cruel,” cried Lady Grayson, looking quickly round the studio; and once more there was a look of triumph in her eyes which met his sparkling with malice, as they both cast them on the same object, which he too saw for the first time.
The thick veil Valentina had snatched off, lay upon the edge of the dais, where she had thrown it, and a chill of horror ran through Armstrong as he felt that they were in this woman’s power, even if he were wrong, and she had not been brought, as he had imagined.
Then a fresh idea struck him. He was perhaps mistaken, and his feeling of rage increased. It was an assignation; they had arranged to meet there for some reason—why they had chosen his studio, he could not divine.
“I am so sorry,” said Lady Grayson, after an awkward pause. “It augurs so badly for my success.”
“Shall I leave you to discuss the matter, my dear Lady Grayson? Mr Dale is a tyrant—an emperor among artists. As for me, I am crushed.”
“No, no; you will stay and help me to plead. My dear Mr Dale, do not be so cruel. I do so want to be on the line this year, and if you would consent to paint a poor, forlorn, helpless widow, I cannot tell you how grateful I should be.”