“I do not understand you, signora, and yet I have a glimmering of what you wish to express,” said Dale, as gravely as if his visitor could grasp every word. “There, you seem to be a lady, and—hang it all, this is very absurd, my preaching to you, and you to me. I wish Pacey were here. He speaks Italian like a native. No, poor lass, I suppose they must be starving nearly, or she would not stoop to this. I don’t wish Joe Pacey were here.”
Then quietly bowing as if acceding to her wishes, he made a sign to his visitor to take her attention, and as she watched him from behind her thick veil, he walked to the entrance and turned the key.
Crossing the studio to the farther door, he threw it open, and then drew forward from the end of the great room a large folding-screen, which he placed at the back of the dais and opened wide.
“There, signora,” he said, “I am at your service;” and he pointed to the inner room, turned from her, and walked to the canvas.
The model stood motionless for a moment or two, and then caught up the great cloak from where it lay upon the floor.
“Grazie, Signore,” she said then, with quiet dignity, and she was hurrying across to the inner room, but he arrested her.
“One moment,” he said, with grave respect, and the chivalrous manner of a true gentleman toward one whose tones seemed to suggest that she trusted him. “Let us arrange the pose first. Look at the picture: study it well. You see the subject.”
Dale continued speaking, but kept on pointing to the scene he had depicted, and, to his intense gratification, she threw the cloak across a chair back, gazed intently at the picture for a few moments, letting her eyes rest longest upon the beautiful, scornful face, and then went quickly to the dais, stepped up, turned, and with rare intelligence fell once more into the very position he desired, bettering in fact that which she had sketched at first.
“Eccellentissimo!” he cried; and then she stepped down quickly, and glided into the inner room, while Dale gazed at his painting with a feeling of triumph sweeping away the morbid thoughts which had troubled him so long.
“Art is my mistress after all,” he said to himself, as he glanced upward to see that the skylight was properly blinded, and then, going to a box, rapidly prepared his palette, armed himself with a sheaf of brushes, and altered the position of his easel a little.