A change came over him on the instant. His brows knit, the free, noisy manner was gone, and he took off his hat, to say with quiet dignity, as he bent his head, but in a voice husky with the pain he felt—
“I beg Lady Dellatoria’s pardon for my rudeness. I was mistaken,” and he turned to go.
“Stay, sir,” she cried, in her low, deep, and musical tones; “my visit to your friend is over. Mr Dale, will you see me to my carriage? It is waiting.”
Valentina held out her hand, and, pale now with emotion, Armstrong advanced to the door, which he opened, and then offered his arm. This she took, and he led her down to the hall in silence.
“Your imprudence has ruined you,” he said then, bitterly, “and disgraced me in the eyes of my friend.”
“No,” she said softly. “You can trust that man. He would die sooner than injure a woman because she loves. Now I am at rest. You will come to me, for I have won. You see,” she continued, as Armstrong mechanically opened the door, and she stepped out proudly on to the steps, “I have no fear. Let the world talk as it will.”
A handsomely appointed carriage drew up, and the footman sprang down to open the door, while Dale, who moved as if he were in a dream, handed her in, she touching his arm lightly, and sinking back upon the cushions.
“I shall expect you to-morrow then, Mr Dale,” she said aloud, “at the usual time.” Then to the servant, “Home.”
Armstrong stood at the edge of the pavement, bareheaded, till the carriage turned the corner out of the square; and then, still as if in a dream, he walked in, closed the door, and ascended to the studio to face his friend.
Pacey was standing with his hands behind him, gazing at the face upon the canvas. He did not stir when Dale took a couple of steps forward into the great, gloomy, darkening room, waiting for an angry outburst of reproaches.