“Armstrong, old man,” he cried loudly, “I could not stand it any longer. You and I must be friends. I believe you told me the truth, lad, I do from my soul. La Bella Donna told me Miss Montesquieu was here, but I thought that wouldn’t matter, as she wouldn’t be sitting at this time.”
Dale could not speak: he was paralysed.
“Don’t hold off, old lad,” said Pacey, in a low tone. “We must make it up. Any apology when she’s gone.”
He turned sharply to where the Contessa stood, closely veiled, and nodded to her familiarly.
“Glad you and Mr Dale have come to terms. Many engagements on the way?”
There was no reply, but the tall proud figure seemed to stiffen, and there was a flash of the eyes through the veil at Armstrong, who now recovered his voice, while his heart sank low within him.
“Go now,” he said, “at once.”
“Oh, Montesquieu won’t mind my being here. But do you really—”
Pacey stopped speaking, as he realised for the first time that it was not the model he had heard was sitting to his friend. He stared at her hard, as if puzzled, then at the canvas, where the beautiful sketch gazed at him fiercely, and he grasped in his own mind the situation.
The paint was wet and glistening: this was the model who had been sitting for the face, and it could be none other than the Contessa.