“The signora declares that there is no occasion for us to speak Italian, since she is an accomplished English scholar,” said Fensden, with a sarcastic touch that was not lost upon Henderson.
“The signorina also speaks our villainous tongue as well as if she had been born and bred within the sound of Bow Bells.”
At this supposed compliment, the elder lady smiled effusively, while her daughter looked gravely from one man to the other as if she were not quite sure of the value to be placed upon what Fensden had said. Having received permission, the two men seated themselves at the table, and Henderson ordered another flask of wine. Under its influence their acquaintance ripened rapidly. It was not, however, until they had been talking some little time, that the all-important subject was broached.
“And it is Teresina’s portrait that your friend would paint, signor?” said the elder lady, turning to Fensden. “And why not? ’Tis a beautiful face, though I, her mother, say it. If the signor will make the—what you call it—’rangements, it shall be as he wishes.”
Less than a minute was sufficient to place the matter on a satisfactory basis, and it was thereupon settled that the Signorina Cardi should attend at the studio at a certain hour every week-day until the picture was finished. Matters having been arranged in this eminently friendly fashion, the meeting broke up, and with many bows and compliments on Fensden’s and the signora’s parts, they bade each other adieu. A few minutes later, the two young men found themselves once more in the street.
“My dear fellow, I don’t know how to thank you,” said Henderson. “I’ve been worrying myself more than I can say at not being able to find the face I wanted. I owe you ten thousand apologies.”
But Fensden would not hear of such a thing as an apology. His only desire was that the picture should be successful, he said.
“I had no idea that he was so fond of me,” Henderson remarked to himself that night when he was alone in his bedroom. “Fancy his hunting through London for a model for me. He is the last man I should have thought would have taken the trouble.”
Next morning Teresina entered upon her duties, and Godfrey set to work with more than his usual enthusiasm. The picture was to be his magnum opus, the greatest effort he had yet given to the world. The beautiful Italian proved to be a good sitter, and her delight as the picture grew upon the canvas was not to be concealed. Meanwhile Fensden smoked innumerable cigarettes, composed fin-de-siècle poems in her honour, and made a number of impressionist studies of her head that his friends declared would eventually astonish artistic London. At last the picture was finished and sent in. Then followed that interval of anxious waiting, so well known to those who have striven for such honours as the Academy has to bestow. When it was announced that it had passed the first and second rejections great was the rejoicing in the studio.
“It is your face that has done it, Teresina,” cried Godfrey. “I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist that.”