“That will do.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The man hesitated at the door.
“Well?”
“Does your ladyship wish the dinner to be served?”
“No: wait till your master orders it. I am unwell. Give me that flacon of salts.”
The man handed the large cut-glass bottle, and went down.
The aspect of languor passed away in an instant, and Valentina sprang from the seat.
“I might have known it,” she panted. “He is no coward when he is roused, despicable as he is at other times. Those men. It means a meeting. They will fight, and—”
She clapped her hands to her forehead as in imagination she saw Armstrong lying bleeding at her husband’s feet. Strong and brave as he was, she doubted the artist’s ability to stand before a man like the Conte, who had often boasted to her of his skill with the small sword, and ability as a marksman.