“I thought, love, that perhaps I had drawn it out with my handkerchief. It is so tiresome to lose one’s purse; is it not, Mr Dale?”
“Worse, madam, not to have one to lose,” said Armstrong, who was placing his brushes in their case.
“How droll you are,” said Lady Grayson; “as if anybody except a beggar could be without a purse. But surely you have not done painting the portrait?”
“Yes, Lady Grayson, I have done painting the portrait,” replied Dale gravely.
“And all through my interruption. Oh, my dearest Valentina, how could I be so indiscreet as to come and interrupt your charming sitting.”
“Would it be a sin to strangle this mocking wretch, who is triumphing over her shame and my disgrace?” thought Dale.
The Contessa was silent, and the situation growing maddening, when Lady Grayson suddenly exclaimed—“Why, there! I told the dear Conte that I felt sure I had dropped it here; and when I am influenced about anything happening, as I was in this case, I am pretty sure to be right.”
She said this meaningly, with a smile at the other actors in the scene, and then took a few steps toward the couch she had occupied, and, picking from it the missing purse, held it up in triumph, and with her eyes sparkling with malicious glee.
“I am so glad,” she cried; “I was so sure. Goodbye once more, dearest Valentina. Good morning, Mr Dale. Oh, you fortunate man,” she continued, gazing at the canvas. “To paint like that. Ah, well, perhaps it may be my turn next,” she added, with a mocking glance at the Contessa. “What, you going too, Mr Dale? Then I did spoil the sitting.”
“No, madam,” said Armstrong coldly; “your arrival was most opportune. Lady Dellatoria, my man shall come for the canvas.”