“Cornel!” he groaned. “Heaven help me! and I have fought so hard. Ah!” he cried, with a sigh of relief, for there were hurried footsteps on the stairs, and the fancied dimness of the studio seemed to pass away as little, meagre Keren-Happuch gave one sharp tap on the door, and then ran in, to stop short, looking wonderingly at the artist’s ghastly, troubled face.
“Oh, Mr Dale, sir, you do work too hard,” she cried reproachfully. Then, in an eager whisper, “It’s all right, sir. The model’s come. I told her she was too late for to-day, but she said she’d see you all the same.”
“Where is she?” said Armstrong, in a voice which startled him.
“In the ’all, sir. I made her wait while I come to know if you’d see her. She’s got on a thick wail, but sech a figger, sir. She’ll do.”
“Send her up,” said Dale, “but tell her I cannot be trifled with like this.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell her you’re in a horful rage ’cause she didn’t come this morning.”
Dale hardly heard the words, but turned away as the girl left the room, to stand gazing at the face which had so magically sprung from the end of his brush; and he still stood gazing dreamily at the canvas when the door was once more opened, there was the rustling of a dress, and Keren-Happuch’s voice was heard, saying snappishly—
“There’s Mr Dale.”
Then the door was shut, and muttering, “Stuck-up, orty minx,” the girl went down to her own region.
Dale did not stir, but still stood gazing at the canvas, fascinated by his work. But his lips moved, and he spoke half-angrily, but in a weary voice.