“Evidently,” said Paul, a trifle disappointed, “it doesn’t meet with your approval.”
“I don’t know,” said Pippa again, still looking puzzled. And then she saw the luncheon table. “Chicken and meringues”—she rolled the “r” in her funny way—“how lovely!”
“The lunch,” said Paul, “unquestionably appeals to you far more than the portrait.”
Pippa did not reply. But during the meal she kept looking from the portrait to Paul, as if she might find in his face some explanation of her perplexity.
They were drinking their coffee, which Pippa loved, when Paul’s man announced the Duchessa.
The whole atmosphere of the studio seemed suddenly to sparkle with her entrance. Paul sprang to his feet. There was a light in his eyes of which the meanest intelligence might have recognized the interpretation.
“I am punctual to the moment,” she said. “And how are you? It is six weeks since we’ve met.” Then she saw Pippa.
“And who,” she asked, “is this?”
“Pippa,” said Paul gravely, “may I introduce you to the Duchessa di Corleone.”
Pippa held out her hand.