“By all means,” replied Christopher. “Where did you lose him?”
“My dear Christopher,” said the Duchessa, “he is not lost, because he has never been found. You are to find him—a pleasant, clever, interesting artist.”
She was sitting in the drawing-room of her house on the Embankment. The windows looked on to the river which she loved. The room was full of flowers which she also loved. She arranged them herself in a room off the dining-room, and carried them upstairs in her arms like children. Every one who loves and arranges flowers knows that in their transit from one place to another the whole carefully-careless effect of their arrangement may be spoiled. Therefore from the moment of entering the strings that tied the great bundles fresh from Covent Garden, to the moment of placing the vases in the drawing-room, no hand but the Duchessa’s touched the flowers. And there was no flower in existence whose colour could jar in the room which was a harmony in pale lavender. To have to exclude a flower on account of its colour would have been to Sara di Corleone like shutting the door on a child because its face was ugly. And being the very essence of womanhood she could have done neither.
“And when the artist is found,” queried Christopher, “may I ask what are your intentions towards him? I have a conscience, Sara, though you may not realize the fact, and if you wish to inmesh the young man in your silken toils merely for the pleasure of seeing him wriggle, then I fear duty will oblige me to refrain from helping you in your search.”
Sara smiled. “I want him,” she said, “to paint my portrait.”
“It sounds dangerous—for the artist,” said Christopher. “May I further ask to whom the portrait is to be presented?”
“To the Casa di Corleone on the banks of Lake Como,” said Sara quietly.
Christopher looked enquiring.
“You have never seen the place,” said Sara, “but I have told you about it.”
“You have,” said Christopher.