"This gentleman says that it's a portrait of his wife."
Mr. Lovell pointed to the Vicomte d'Humières.
"No? Then, in that case, this gentleman's wife came into your bedroom in the middle of the night, and--kissed you, wasn't it?"
Mr. Warren spoke in the innocence of his heart, but, at that moment, Mr. Lovell could have struck his boyhood's friend. There was a listener behind the screen. The young gentleman's cheeks grew crimson, as the lady's had done a few minutes before. He was conscious, too, that the Vicomte's unfriendly eyes were fixed upon his face.
"So! That is it! You--you----" The Vicomte moved a step forward, then checked himself. "Tell me, where is my wife at this instant?"
Mr. Lovell could have told him, but he refrained.
"I decline to give you any information of any kind whatever."
"You decline?" The Vicomte raised his hand. He would have struck the artist. Mr. Warren interposed to avert the blow.
"He declines for the very simple reason that he has never seen your wife; isn't that so, Gerald?"
Mr. Lovell hesitated. He scarcely saw his way to a denial while the lady was behind the screen.