“You are to bring them up yourself,” he said haughtily.
Daniel Jaggs placed his hat upon one of the crest-blazoned hall chairs, loaded himself well with the artistic impedimenta, and then went forward to the foot of the stairs up which the butler was leading the way, when, hearing a sound, he turned sharply.
“Here! Hi!” he cried loudly; “what are you going to do with that ’at?”
For one of the footmen was putting it out of sight, disgusted with the appearance of the dirty lining.
“Hush! Recollect where you are,” whispered the butler. “Her ladyship will hear.”
“But that’s my best ’at,” grumbled the model, and then he subsided into silence as he was ushered into a magnificently furnished room; the door was closed behind him, and he stood staring round, thinking of backgrounds, when there was the rustling of silk, and “The Emperor” was dazzled, staring, as he told himself, at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.
Valentina, Contessa Dellatoria, was worthy of the man’s admiration as she stood there with her dark eyes half veiled by their long lashes, in all the proud matured beauty of a woman of thirty, who could command every resource of jewel and robe to heighten the charms with which nature had liberally endowed her. She was beautiful; she knew it; and at those moments, eager with anticipations which had heightened the colour in her creamy cheeks, and the lustre in her eyes, she stood ready to be amused as she thoroughly grasped the meaning of the man’s astonished gaze.
“You have brought those from Mr Dale, have you not?” she said at last, in a rich, soft voice.
“Yes, my lady. I ’ave, my lady. The heasel and canvas, my lady.”
“Perhaps you had better bring them into this room.”