“Yes, sir,” said Keren-Happuch, but Dale checked her.
“Don’t go,” he said.
“Ah, well then, Mr Dale, as the lady is not coming up to see us, we will go and see her: Mahomet to the mountain, eh! my dear Lady Grayson? May I see you to your carriage?”
“I have no carriage here,” she said quickly. “Yes, we had better go.”
“After our double failure to-day; but Mr Dale will alter his decision on our behalf. Good day, my dear modern representative of Fra Lippo Lippi. It is grand to be a handsome young artist,” the Conte continued, as he took a step toward the dais, and raised something on the end of his cane, “supplicated by beautiful ladies to transfer their features to canvas; but you should warn them not to leave their veils behind when they take refuge in another room. Look, my dear Lady Grayson;” and he held the veil toward her on the end of his cane, “thick—secretive—admirable for a disguise.—Come.”
He tossed the veil back on to the dais, and opened the door for his companion to pass out, while Dale stood fuming with rage, and Lady Grayson gave him a mocking look as he advanced.
“Good morning, Mr Dale,” she said laughingly, and then in a whisper—“secret for secret, my handsome friend. You and I cannot play at telling tales out of school.”
“Lor’, if it ain’t like being at the theayter,” thought Keren-Happuch, as the door was shut, and Dale crossed quickly to reopen it, and stand listening till the front door closed. Then he came back to where the little maid stood waiting, while, faintly heard, came a call from below.
“Keren—Hap—puch!”
“Comin’, mum. Please, Mr Dale, sir, missus is a callin’ of me; may I go?”