“Who was the lady who came just now?” Keren-Happuch writhed slightly, as she looked in a frightened way in the artist’s face.
“Do you hear me? I said, Who was the lady who came just now? It was not the Contessa?”
“No, sir.”
“Was it that—that American lady?”
“What! her with the pretty face, who went away crying, sir? Oh no; it wasn’t her.”
The girl’s words sent a sting through him.
“Then who was it?”
“Please, Mr Dale, sir, I don’t like to tell you.”
“Tell me this instant, girl,” he cried, catching her fiercely by the arm.
“Oh, don’t, please, Mr Dale,” she whimpered. “You frighten me.”