Then she drew a long breath, the light in her eyes grew fixed, and there was a peculiar hardening in her smile, as Armstrong went on painting, and said calmly—
“The large mythological study I showed you and the Conte?”
“Yes, that one,” said Lady Grayson, who, in spite of her assurance, did not dare to look at her friend, whose smile grew a little harder now, though there was a feeling of triumph glowing at her heart, as she detected her friend’s slip.
“Badly,” said Armstrong quietly. “I beg your pardon, Lady Dellatoria; that smile is too hard. Are you fatigued?”
“Oh no,” she replied; and the smile he was trying to transfer to the canvas came back with a look which he avoided, and he continued hastily—
“I cannot satisfy myself with my sitters. I want a good—a beautiful, intense-looking—face, full of majesty, passion, and refinement; but the models are all so hard and commonplace. I can find beautiful women to sit, but there is a vulgarity in their faces where I want something ethereal or spiritual.”
“Why not get the Contessa to sit?”
“Or Lady Grayson?” said Valentina scornfully.
“Oh, I should sit for Mr Dale with pleasure.”
“My dear Henriette, how can you be so absurd?”