“Painting the picture over and over again?”
“Your ladyship does not understand. It’s like this: many of our best tayblows of goddesses and nymphs is made up. One model does for the face, another for the arms and hands, another for busties and—I beg your ladyship’s pardon; I was only talking art.”
“I understand. I take a great deal of interest in the subject.”
“Thankye, my lady. I told Mr Dale as it was expecting too much to get a perfeck woman for a model, for there wasn’t such a thing in nature. But, all hignorance, my lady, all hignorance. I hadn’t seen your ladyship then. I beg your ladyship’s pardon for being so bold.”
“The Emperor” had seen the dreamy dark eyes open wide and flash angrily, but the look changed back to the listless, half-contemptuous again, and the lady said with a smile—
“Granted.—That will do. I suppose you will fetch Mr Dale’s easel when it is removed?”
“I hope so, my lady, and thank you kindly. So generous! Never forget it, and—oh! I beg your pardon, sir.”
“The Emperor” had been backing toward the door, and nearly came in contact with a short, slight, carefully dressed, middle-aged man—that is to say, he was about forty-five, looked sixty-five the last thing at night, and as near thirty-five as his valet could make him in the day.
He gazed keenly at the noble features of the man who towered over him, and “The Emperor” returned the gaze, noting, from a professional point of view, the rather classic Italian mould of the features, disfigured by a rather weak sensual mouth, and dark eyes too closely set.
“Two sizes larger, and what a Yago he would have made to my Brabantio,” muttered “The Emperor,” as he was let out by one of the footmen; and at the same moment Armstrong Dale, artist, strode up—a manly, handsome, carelessly dressed, typical Saxon Englishman in appearance, generations of his family, settled in America since the Puritan days, having undergone no change.