“I think they would injure the pictures if they did come,” she rejoined seriously. “And that would be a pity, for they are beautiful things. I like the ‘Annunciation’ the best. You have made the angel Gabriel’s wings quite translucent. You did not paint this one, did you, Herbert?” pointing to an unframed representation of the Crucifixion, which struck her as being somewhat musty in comparison with the others.
The artist smiled. “No, I wish I had,” he replied enthusiastically. “That is a real Raffaelle, my dear. It belongs to the duke, who lent it me as a guide. I had better put it away while I think of it. I wouldn’t have anything happen to that for the world.”
Suiting the action to the word, he wrapped the painting in an holland covering, then placed it carefully in the cupboard under lock and key. The other pictures he left where they were: one on the easel, and the others on the floor facing the French windows.
He thought of them again when he was at the Stannards’ ball, although there was no reason why they should recur to his memory just then. Perhaps it was because the face of his partner reminded him of the features he had given to the Magdalene. He often found resemblances between the people he met and characters in his pictures.
The ball-room was crowded with quite a galaxy of fresh-complexioned country girls escorted in the dance by the young scions of the neighbouring county families; whilst on the platform which bounded the room were ranged in solemn state their chaperons. The absence of Celia Franks caused universal regret; but to one of the guests, at least, the cloud had a silver lining. This was Lady Marjorie Stonor.
“You will let me give you a lift, if you have not ordered your dog-cart to come for you to-night?” she said to the artist, as soon as she found his sister was not there. She did not wish to miss the opportunity of a moonlight drive with him alone.
“It is very kind of you,” he replied politely. “But I have accepted Major Denham’s offer of a seat in his motor-car.”
His refusal almost sounded like a rebuff, but the young widow did not take it in that light. Instead, she flashed him a glance out of those wonderful blue eyes of hers.
“It is such a long drive,” she murmured with a sigh, “and I am all alone. Cannot you countermand your acceptance?”
He would have been more than mortal if he could have withstood such a look and such an appeal.