Clayton mutely followed Lilienthal to the door of a private room in the "Bavaria" and, with a wildly beating heart, was bowing low before the woman whose shining eyes had brought to his bosom such strange unrest.
"It is like a page from a novel," the flute-like voice murmured, "that this lucky picture should have brought us together again, as it strangely did once face to face."
Randall Clayton's ears drank in that soft, wooing accent, and all the ardor of his eyes betrayed the instant recognition which lay behind the diva's merry words.
When he had murmured his thanks, the presence of Lilienthal seemed to be a bar to any rapprochement. Clayton was fain to accept Fräulein Gluyas' courtesy in allowing him a choice as to the handling of the picture or its replica.
"If Mademoiselle will allow me," said Clayton, "I will give Mr. Lilienthal my cheque for the coming proof, and retain in my possession the one framed in our American manner."
This was soon settled, and then, with a glance at his watch, the dealer, bowing low, hurried away.
"We artists have to be unconventional," frankly said the Magyar beauty.
"I await Madame Raffoni here for a little tour of the wonderful
New York shops."
It was a natural passage from the picture to the memories of the
Danube, and then, under the kindling glances of the diva, Randall
Clayton talked, with spirit, of his happy summer ramblings through
Austria and Hungary.
Irma Gluyas' magnetic eyes burned into his soul as she followed the young stranger in his itinerary. It was only when the maître d'hôtel entered, announcing Madame Raffoni as in waiting in her carriage, that Randall Clayton's castle in Spain came crashing down around him.