“Move that easel a little forward,” she said.
The man crossed to the back room and altered the position of the tripod and canvas.
“A little more toward the middle of the room.”
At that moment there was the faintly heard sound of a whistle, followed by the rattle of wheels, which stopped in front of the house. A few moments later the rattle of the wheels began again, and there was the faint, dull, heavy sound of the closing front door.
“I think that will do,” said the Contessa carelessly. “Show Mr Dale up.”
The man left the room, and the change was instantaneous. His mistress sprang up eager and animated, stepped to one of the mirrors, gave a quick glance at her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, laid her hand for a moment upon her heaving bosom, and then hurriedly resumed her seat, with her head averted from the door. She took up a book, with which she half screened her face, the hand which held open the leaves trembling slightly from the agitation imparted by her quickened pulses.
The door opened silently, and the servant announced loudly—“Mr Dale,” and withdrew.
The artist took a step or two forward, and then waited for a sign of recognition, which did not come for a few moments, during which there was a quick nervous palpitation going on in the lady’s temples.
Then she rose quickly, letting fall the book, and advanced towards the visitor.
“You are late,” she said, in a low, deep, emotional voice.