“Well, look here,” said Armitage in desperation. “May I take this sheet of paper, Princess?” He went to the writing-table, and using the blotter as a sketching-block, drew rapidly for two or three minutes, with swift glances at Danaë. When he handed the paper to Zoe, there were two figures on it, each expressed with the utmost economy of strokes—Danaë in her present dress, all train and long gloves, with a coronet of hair emerging above a fluffy mass of ostrich feathers, and Danaë in her native costume, standing on a cliff looking out to sea, one hand shading her eager eyes, vitality in every line of her form. “Now which of those do you like best?” he asked triumphantly.
“Oh, this one, lord!” was the fervent reply, as Danaë laid her hand affectionately on the one representing her at the moment. Armitage laughed, but not very heartily.
“I am beaten,” he said. “Well, as the Lady Kalliopé pleases.”
“It is really a caricature,” said Zoe, in a vexed tone. “You can hardly see anything of her.”
“No. After all, it is a picture of the gown that is wanted, isn’t it? Why, think; I shall be able to paint the whole thing without the sitter’s being in the room—or even in the neighbourhood.” Armitage did not guess how prophetic the words would seem to him later.
Danaë was satisfied. When she came to Zoe’s room that night to restore her borrowed plumes, she smiled happily as she pulled off her gloves.
“Oh, if only every day were like this evening, lady mine, how good I could be!” she sighed.
CHAPTER XVI.
J’ACCUSE.
The glow of that wonderful evening had faded into the light of common day, and the conquering beauty in gold tissue was Cinderella again in her despised national dress. But for the present the memory was enough, and Linton’s caustic comments were forgotten in the glorious fact that Kalliopé, the underling, had for once associated on equal terms with Linton’s employers. These employers were too much occupied this morning with their own affairs to have much thought to spare for their guest of the night before. The post, which was not by any means a daily, or even a regular occurrence, came in before breakfast was over, and Armitage tore open one of his letters with considerable excitement.
“Old Pazzi!” he said. “He’s on his way here—ought to get in to-day. Says he had just had my letter telling him we thought we might be able to give him news of his grandson, and was starting at once.”