He clasped her to his heart, and held her till she faintly struggled to be free, and then laughingly covered her face with the thick veil her husband had thrown down.
“There,” she said merrily. “Now I must go. Back to my faithful Jaggs.”
“What!”
“He is my slave—‘The Emperor,’ he says you call him. He has been my slave from the first day you sent him to the house. He told me everything about you in answer to my questions regarding the portrait you had painted from memory, and then—‘Armstrong does love me with all his heart’ I said to myself, and I was ready to risk everything to win that love.”
“And did he suggest that you should be my model?” said Dale.
“No; that was my idea, when he told me how hard you were pressed. He helped me, and I came. And now, once more, I must go. It will not be like life until I am here again.”
She gave him her white hands, which he held passionately to his lips. Then, covering them hastily with her common gloves, she drew her cloak about her.
“One moment,” he whispered. “The address? Where are you now—for this?”
“Always in your heart,” she said, in a passionate whisper. Then, “A rivederla,” she said aloud, and was gone.
“Poor Cornel!” sighed Dale, as he sank into a chair. “Forgive me, dear. She is right; a boy and girl’s pure gentle love, of which I am not worthy. It is fate, dear, and this is really love—a love for which a man might sacrifice honour—even sell his very soul.”