He knew that in very few hours he could produce that face with its scornful eyes, but he always put it off.
After a time, when the trouble there was not so fresh, it would be more easy—“and the power to paint it as I saw it then have grown faint,” he added in despair, with the consequence that between the desire to paint a masterpiece, and the temptation to which he had been exposed, the face of Lady Dellatoria was always before him, sleeping and waking; though had he made a strong effort to cast out the recollection of those passionate, yearning eyes, the letters he received from time to time would have kept the memory fresh.
“At last!” he cried that morning, as steps were heard upon the stairs. “But she has not a light foot. I remember, though: they told me that she was a fine, majestic-looking woman.”
There was a tap at the door.
“Come in.”
Jupiter himself, in the person of Daniel Jaggs, thrust in his noble head.
“All right, Emperor, come in,” said Dale, going on painting, giving touches to the background of his Olympian scene, with its group of glowing beauties, who were to be surpassed by the majesty of the principal figure still to come. “What is it? Don’t want you to-day.”
“No, sir. I knowed it was a lady day, but I’ve come with a message from one.”
“Not from Lady—”
He ceased speaking, and his heart beat heavily. Jaggs had been to and from Portland Place with the canvas. Had she made him her messenger?