“Pish!” ejaculated Dale. “Very well, though. Get ready, please. I want to do a long morning’s work.”
“Monsieur will pay me,” she said, holding out her hand in its well-mended glove.
He took out a couple of half-crowns, which she almost snatched, and then, without a word, pointed to the door almost imperiously.
He nodded shortly, and went to fasten it, while she glided into the inner room, and in a wonderfully short space of time returned ready, took her place upon the dais, dropped the cloak, and he began to paint.
“Monsieur has not covered the dreadful head,” she said hoarsely.
Without a word he took a square of brown paper, gummed it, and covered the face; then in perfect silence he went on painting, deeply interested in his work as his sketch took softer form and grew rapidly beneath his brush.
But the work did not progress so fast as on the previous day: he was painting well, but the black head, so incongruous and weird of aspect, posed upon the beautiful female form he was transferring to canvas, irritated him, and as he looked at his model from time to time, he could see that a pair of piercing eyes were watching him.
Half-an-hour had passed, when there was a low, weary sigh.
“We will rest a little,” he said quietly, and pointing to a chair and the screen, he devoted himself to an unimportant part of the work for some ten minutes, but to be brought back to his model by her words—
“I am waiting, monsieur.”