“It is impossible, madam,” said Armstrong coldly, but with a burning feeling of rage against his visitors seething in his breast. It was an assignation then, but Lady Grayson had divined Valentina’s presence, and he had seen her glance again and again at the further door. He was in a dilemma too: for if he refused this woman’s prayer, she would perhaps spitefully declare all she knew to the husband. But he cast that aside. If she did not speak now, she would at some other time, and in his then frame of mind he could only fight. He could not fence.
“Impossible!—you hear this cruel man, Conte? he is a tyrant indeed. Mr Dale, is it really in vain to plead?”
“I tell you again, madam, it is impossible.”
“But if I wait a week—a month—any time you like?”
“My answer would only be the same, madam, as I have given Conte Dellatoria. I can paint no more portraits for any one. I have, I think I may say, painted my last.”
“I am disappointed,” she said, giving him a peculiar look. “But, no—you will not refuse me. Come, Mr Dale—for the Exhibition. Only this one portrait at your own terms, and I will promise to preserve secrecy.”
The malicious look in her eyes intensified as she said these words, telling him plainly that she knew all, but that the Conte was, after all, still in ignorance.
His answer would have been a promise, for the sake of the unhappy woman within that room; but at that moment there was a sharp rap at the door, Keren-Happuch opened it, and blurted out—
“Oh, if you please, sir, here’s that there lady as you began to paint.”
Dale turned upon her dumbfounded.