Presently she reappeared, and we went to dine together at a restaurant in Piccadilly, afterwards visiting a theatre, and spending a very pleasant evening.
Poor Dick! I was sorry that he was so infatuated. He was such a large-hearted, honest fellow, that I felt quite pained when I anticipated the awakening that must inevitably come sooner or later. He knew absolutely nothing of her past, and was quite ignorant that she had been a popular actress.
In the months that followed, I visited the studio almost daily, and watched the growth of the picture. Dick was putting his whole soul into the composition, and my knowledge of art—acquired by years of idling in the ateliers of the Quartier Latin, and dabbling with the colours a little myself—told me that he was engaged upon what promised to be his finest work.
The face was a lifelike portrait. The delicate tints of the neck and arms were reproduced with a skill that betrayed the master hand, and the reflection in the mirror behind had a wonderfully natural appearance, while the bright colours enhanced the general effect of gay, reckless abandon.
The fair model herself was charmed with it. Woman’s vanity always betrays itself over her picture.
One evening, at the time the canvas was receiving its finishing touches, I returned home from a stroll across Kensington Gardens, and, on going in, heard some one playing upon my piano, and a sweet soprano voice singing Trotere’s “In Old Madrid.” I recognised the clear tones as those of Ethel.
“Ah, Harold!” she cried, jumping up as I entered the room. “I was amusing myself until your return. I—I have something to tell you.”
“Well, what is it?” I asked, rather surprised.
“Cannot you guess? Dick has asked me to become his wife,” she said in a low tone.
“The thing’s impossible!” I cried warmly. “I will not allow it. You may be friends, but he shall never marry you.”