“As you will,” he said, and he began to paint once more.
But the power to convey all he wished to the canvas had gone, and he turned to her again.
“Tell me more about yourself,” he said. “You are a foreigner, and friendless here in England: I know that, but tell me more. I may be of service to you.”
“Monsieur is being of service to me. He pays me for occupying this degrading position to which I am driven.”
There was so much angry bitterness in her tones that Dale was again silenced; but his pulse beat high, and as he applied his brush to his canvas from time to time, there were only results that he would have to wipe away.
“I am sorry you consider the task degrading,” he said at last. “I have endeavoured to make it as little irksome as I could.”
“Monsieur has been most kind till now,” she said quickly; and then, in a bitterly contemptuous tone, “monsieur forgets that I am waiting. His pencil is idle.”
He started angrily, and went on painting, but the eyes were still watching him, and, strive all he would, there was the intense desire growing once more to see that face which was hidden from him so closely. He knew that he ought to respect his visitor’s scruples, but he could not, and again and again he shivered with a sensation nearly approaching to dread. But the wish was still supreme. That black woollen veil piqued him, and after a few minutes of worthless work, he asked her if she was weary.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Then we will rest a few minutes.”