“What I am afraid there is no chance of gaining,” he replied softly; “the heart of the dearest, most beautiful woman in the world.”
“You want—a good deal.”
“Nothing less would content me.”
The studio was on the roof of a building in Victoria Street and was reached by a long flight of stairs from his living apartments below. Somewhere down there a middle-aged, flat-footed woman acted as his servant, but she never came into the studio unless Frank rang for her. The sounds of the traffic made a dull, heavy grumbling below, but no other noise intruded upon them.
He looked at his sitter and he found her very desirable and very beautiful, especially to-day, with that touch of languor, that air of laisser faire, as of one who lays down the oars and deliberately lets the boat drift with the current. Was it only a momentary mood? Did he dare to say more?
She looked at the man, and she found him young and very much alive, fully aware and appreciative of her femininity.
Unconsciously she sighed.
In an instant he had thrown down the brushes and was at her side, a light in his eyes, a look on his face that made her shrink back a little and catch at the arms of the chair.
“Claudia!”
She raised her eyebrows interrogatively.