The Ruse.
There was a puzzled look in Lady Grayson’s face as Dale sprang at the Conte, and swung him round, sending him staggering from the door, before which he placed himself, his face dark with wrath.
For the moment, the Italian looked utterly astounded. Then, with a fierce ejaculation, he made at Dale with his cane raised, and his countenance convulsed.
“Dog!” he muttered in Italian; and the artist clenched his fist, ready to proceed to any extremities now in Lady Dellatoria’s defence.
But Lady Grayson flew between them, whispering to the Conte eagerly, and Dale caught a word or two here and there—
“Scandal—mistake—my sake—meet her now.” The Conte drew himself up and pressed Lady Grayson’s hand, as he gave her a significant look. Then, veiling his anger with a peculiar smile, he turned to Dale.
“Lady Grayson is right,” he said, with grave courtesy; “it was a mistake. I was quite in the wrong, Mr Dale. I ought not to have attempted to break in upon your privacy. We all have our little secrets, eh? There, it is quite past. An accident, that Lady Dellatoria should be calling now when we are here?”
“Yes—a very strange accident,” said Lady Grayson, with a malicious look at the artist.
“It does not matter,” continued the Count. “All this contretemps because ladies are vain enough to wish the world to see how beautiful they are. But she is long coming, this wife of mine.”
No one spoke for a few moments, all standing listening for the steps upon the stairs, and the rustling sound of the Contessa’s dress, but everything was perfectly still, and at last, with a shrug of the shoulders, the Conte turned to Armstrong.