“Oh, how clever!” cried Lady Grayson, who had resumed her seat.
“Then she is waiting to see Cesare,” thought the Contessa, smiling at her friend.
“Did you mean that dab I just made with my brush, Lady Grayson?” said Armstrong coldly.
“Fie! to speak so slightingly of your work. Dab, indeed! why, I have had lessons in painting and ought to know. Every touch you give that canvas shows real talent.”
“And with all due respect, Lady Grayson, I, as a man who has studied hard in New York, Paris, Rome, and here in London, confidently say that you are no judge.”
“I declare I am, sir,” cried Lady Grayson merrily. “The fact is, you are too modest.—Don’t you think he is far too modest, dear?”
“I am debarred from entering into the discussion,” said the Contessa, with a fixed smile.
“Then I must do all the talking.—Capital! The portrait grows more like at every touch. By the way, Mr Dale, how is your big picture getting on—the one I saw at your studio?”
In spite of her self-command, Valentina turned pale, and a flash darted from her eyes.
She at his studio!