“Valentina,” she whispered, “who casts off all a woman’s reserve for you, the first who ever taught her that, after all, there is such a thing as love in this weary world, and with it hope and joy.”
The hands which had rested upon his arm rose to his shoulders, and tightened about his neck, as she laid her burning face upon his breast.
Chapter Five.
Lady Grayson’s Purse.
With one quick motion, Armstrong threw Valentina back into her seat, and snatched up palette and brushes, mad with rage and shame, as he made an effort to go on painting. For the drawing-room door had been opened with a good deal of rattling of the handle, and he expected that the next minute he would have to turn and face the husband.
But it was a woman’s voice, full of irony and sarcasm, and he turned sharply, to see that the Contessa sat back in her chair with a strangely angry light in her dark eyes, gazing at Lady Grayson.
“Pray forgive me, dear,” said the latter mockingly. “So sorry to disturb you. I was obliged to come back, for I have lost my purse. Did I leave it here?”
“How could you have left it here?” said the Contessa coldly, as she quivered beneath her friend’s gaze.