"What can this mean?" muttered the artist. "I shall see Father Ignatius to-night, and shall ask him the meaning of this affront."
"Perhaps," said Daphne, "the priest has seen me, and is vexed to think that the Madonna he asked you to paint, instead of being, as he supposed, an ideal face, is simply the portrait of an Englishwoman—and of an Englishwoman who is a heretic in his eyes, you know."
The artist was silent, and, turning to Daphne, I said:
"I will just ask uncle how long he is going to remain standing over there."
Walking off quickly, I overtook the attendant before he reached the sacristy door.
"You really do not know, then," said I to him, "why Father Ignatius wishes the picture to be destroyed?"
"I know no more than I told Master Angelo just now, sir."
My uncle at this juncture approached us, wondering much to see Angelo's Madonna in the hands of the attendant. Addressing Paolo, he said, while pointing to the sacristy door:
"The old man who went in here with the priest—is he still within? I want to see him."
"He is gone. Left a few minutes since."