“Where is she, Miranda?”
“On the front door mat, sir. And please, Mr Dale, sir, mayn’t I bring you some beef-tea?”
“No, thank you, Miranda. Bring up the visitor instead.”
“Oh, dear! he do worry me,” muttered Keren-Happuch. “I do hope he ain’t going into a decline.”
Dale smiled at the dirty card, and waited for the entrance of the new model, who was shown in directly by the grimy maid, and immediately, in a quick, jerky, excited way, looked sharply round the room before turning her face to the artist as the girl closed the door.
On his side he gazed with cold indifference at his visitor, who, after taking a couple of steps forward, stopped short, and he saw that she was rather tall, wore a closely fitting bonnet, over which a thick dark Shetland wool veil was drawn, and was draped from head to foot in a long black cloak, which had evidently seen a good deal of service.
“Signora Azacci?” said Dale, glancing at the card again, and making a good shot at her name.
It was evidently correct, for the woman said, in a husky voice, as if suffering from intense nervousness—
“Si, si.”
“You are willing to stand for me—for this picture?” said Dale, scanning her closely, but learning nothing respecting her figure on account of the cloak; and he spoke very coldly, for the woman’s actions on entering struck him as being angular and awkward; now they were jerky, as she raised her hands to her temples.