“He is immovable,” she said to the Conte.
“No, no! Body of Bacchus! I understand;” and he placed his finger to his lips, and half closing his eyes, signed to Dale to step aside with him. “Mr Dale,” he whispered, “Lady Dellatoria has set her mind upon this, and I see now: a much more highly paid commission that you wish to do for some one. That shall not stand in the way. Come, I double the amount for which we—what do you name it? Ah, yes—bargained.”
Dale turned upon him fiercely.
“No, sir!” he cried; “it is not a question of money. No sum would induce me to finish that portrait.”
“Ah, well: we shall see,” said the Conte. “Do not be angry, my young friend. Lady Dellatoria will be eaten by chagrin. But we will discuss the matter no more to-day. Good morning.”
He held out his hand to Lady Grayson, but she did not take it. She moved toward Dale, and held out her gloved fingers.
“Good morning, Mr Dale,” she said merrily. “You great men in oil are less approachable than a Prime Minister.” Then in a low tone: “It is not true, all this show of opposition. I am not blind.”
She turned and gave her hand to the Conte, and they left the studio, Armstrong making no effort to show them out, but standing motionless till he heard the door close, when, with a gesture of contempt and disgust, he threw open the windows and lit his pipe.
A minute later he had thrown the pipe aside and taken out Cornel’s letter to read; but the words swam before his eyes, and he could only see the face hidden behind that curtain.
“Poor little talisman!” he said, sadly apostrophising the letter, “you have lost your power. Evil is stronger than good, after all.”