“Lady—” Danaë paused to enjoy the effect of her dark head rising out of the creamy feathers—“don’t you think Milordo will want to make a picture of me now?”
“I don’t know,” said Zoe, rather taken aback. “We will ask him, if you like.”
Danaë assented joyfully, and Zoe found her eyes on her continually during the evening, which really went off very well. The difficulty Maurice had found in fulfilling his promise to bring his wife was known only to himself, but since he had argued her from her first flat refusal, through the assertion that the mere request was an insult, to the position that the whole thing was a mad joke, and never to be presumed upon afterwards, he felt he had reason to be satisfied. Having submitted, Eirene made up her mind to do so with a good grace, and if she had known Danaë to be a young princess she could not have treated her more graciously. The girl showed by her behaviour that she had used her eyes to good purpose since her arrival at Klaustra. Her mistakes were wonderfully few, and she repaired or ignored them, as seemed most advisable at the moment, with a natural dignity that left nothing to be desired. Small-talk she was not an adept in, but Armitage found her a promising pupil, and after all, it was not necessary for her to talk—merely to sit and allow herself to be looked at. Nevertheless, he was curiously disconcerted when Zoe came up to him in the drawing-room afterwards, with the stately beauty following her like a shadow.
“Lady Kalliopé wants to know whether you will paint her portrait in this dress?” she said lightly, but the girl’s eyes were tragic with entreaty. Armitage frowned.
“Certainly not. Think of the incongruity!”
“It would please her very much,” Zoe urged.
“You do not like me this evening, lord?” asked Danaë mournfully.
“I like you better in your own dress,” was the stout reply.
“Oh no, lord—not in those common clothes!”
“Just to please her—she has deserved it,” said Zoe.