“Mr Dale can’t find a model who would do for Juno. I was suggesting that dearest Valentina should sit.”
“Very good of you, Lady Grayson,” said the Conte shortly; “but her ladyship does not sit for artists.”
“And Mr Dale does not wish her ladyship to do so, sir,” said the artist, as haughtily as the Conte.
“There, I’ve said something wrong,” cried Lady Grayson. “Poor me! It’s time I went. I had no business to stay and hinder the painting. Good morning, Mr Dale. Good-bye, Valentina, dear. Ask the Conte to forgive me.”
She bent down and kissed the beautiful face, which did not wince, but there was war between two pairs of eyes. Then, turning round, she held out her hand.
“Good-bye, dreadful man. I’m too awfully sorry I cannot give you a lift on my way back to the park.”
“No, thanks. By-the-by, yes; I want to go to Albert Gate. Would it be taking you out of your way?”
“Oh no. Delighted. My horses don’t have half enough to do.”
“Then come along.”
Armstrong could not help glancing at the couple as they crossed towards the door; and then as he turned back to the canvas his heart began to beat painfully, for he heard a peculiar hissing sound as of a long deep breath being drawn through teeth closely set, and a dangerous feeling of pity entered his breast. He could not paint, but stood fixed with the brush raised, completely mastered by the flood of thought which rushed through his brain. He saw plainly how great cause there was for the coldness and contempt with which the Contessa viewed her husband, and he realised fully the truth of the rumours he had heard of how she—a beautiful English girl—had been hurried into a fashionable marriage with this contemptible, wealthy, titled man. What else could come of it but such a life as he saw too plainly that they led!