“Nay, nay,” said the signora, who was present, “such compliments will turn the child’s head. Her face would not be there but for the signor’s cleverness. Well do I remember that when Luigi Maffoni painted the portrait of Monsignore——”
No one heeded her, so she continued the narrative in an undertone to the cat on her lap. The day, however, was not destined to end as happily as it had begun. That evening, when they were alone together in the studio, Fensden took Godfrey to task.
“Dear boy,” he said, as he helped himself to a cigarette from a box on the table beside him, “I have come to the conclusion that you must go warily. There are rocks ahead, and, from what I see, you are running straight for them.”
“What on earth is the matter now?” Godfrey asked, stretching himself out in an easy chair as he spoke. “I know the poise of that head is not quite what it might be, but haven’t I promised you that I’ll alter it to-morrow? Teresina is the very best model in the world, and as patient as she’s beautiful.”
“That’s exactly what I am complaining of,” Victor answered, quietly. “If she were not, I should not bother my head about her. I feel, in a measure, responsible, don’t you see? If it hadn’t been for me, she would not be here.”
The happiness vanished from Godfrey’s face as a breath first blurs and then leaves the surface of a razor.
“I am afraid I don’t quite grasp the situation,” he said. “You surely don’t suppose that I am falling in love with Teresina—with my model?”
“I am quite aware that you’re not,” the other answered. “There is my trouble. If you were in love with her, there might be some hope for her. But as it is there is none.”
Henderson stared at him in complete surprise.