He uttered a low sigh full of satisfaction, for her coming was most welcome. It would force his attention to his work.
“Good morning,” he said gravely and distinctly, in French. “You are very punctual.”
She bowed distantly, and then her attention seemed to be caught by the face upon the canvas, and she drew near to stand gazing at it attentively.
She turned to him sharply. “The lady who sat for that: why did she not stay for you to finish the portrait?”
Dale started, half wondering, half annoyed by his model’s imperious manner.
“It is great!” she said. Then in a quick, eager tone: “The lady you love?”
He was so startled by the suddenness of the question, that he replied as quickly—
“No, no. It is not from a model. It is imagination.”
“Ah!” she said, and she looked at the picture more closely. “You thought of her and painted. You are very able, monsieur, but I like it not. It makes me to shiver, I know not why. It makes me afraid to look.”
“Then don’t look,” said Dale, in an annoyed tone. “You will cover it, please, monsieur. The face is so angry; it gives me dread.”