“Yes, my lady—of course, my lady,” said the model eagerly, as he blundered after the Contessa, “The Emperor’s” rather shambling movements, being due to a general looseness of joint, in no wise according with the majesty of his head and face.
“Yes; about there. That will do; they are sure to be moved.”
“Oh yes, my lady, on account of the light. Mr Dale’s very partickler.”
“Indeed? Will he be here soon?”
“Direc’ly, I should say, my lady. He bordered me to bring on his traps.”
“From his studio?” said the lady, sinking into a chair, and taking a purse from a little basket on a table.
“The Emperor’s” eyesight was very good, and the movement suggested pleasant things. The lady, too, seemed disposed to question him, and he winked to himself mentally, as he glanced at the beautiful face before him, thought of his employer’s youth and good looks, and then had sundry other thoughts, such as might occur to a man of a very ordinary world.
But his hands were not idle; they were as busy as his thoughts, and he spread the legs of the easel, and altered the position of the pegs ready for the canvas.
“Will you take this—for your trouble?” came in that soft, rich, thrilling voice.
“Oh no—thank you, my lady—that ain’t necessary,” said the man hastily, as his fingers closed over the coin extended with a smile by fingers glittering with jewels.—“A suv, by jingo,” he added to himself.