“Are you Mr Dale’s servant?”
“No, ma’am—my lady. Oh, dear, no. An old friend—that is, you know, I sit for him—and stand. I’m in a many of his pictures.”
“Oh, I see. He takes your portrait?”
“Well, no, my lady; portraits is quite another line. I meant for his gennery pictures.”
“Genre?”
“Yes, my lady. I was standing for Crackticus that day when you and his lordship come to the studio.”
“Indeed? I did not see you.”
“No, my lady. I had to go into the next room. You see I was a hancient Briton, and not sootable for or’nary society ’cept in a picture.—I think that’ll do, my lady. He’ll alter it to his taste.”
“Yes, but—er—does Mr Dale paint many portraits of ladies?” said the Contessa, detaining the model as he made as if to depart.
“Oh no, my lady. I never knew him do such a thing afore. He never works away from his studio, and he went on a deal about having to come here—er—that is—of course, he did not know,” added the man hastily.