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Spentoli was one of the very few men for whom he entertained respect. The Italian's work had always held an immense attraction for his artistic soul, and he had never troubled to disguise the fact. "My wife is young and shy," he said, after a moment. "I will present you some day, Spentoli, but it may not be yet." "This is her first visit to Paris?" questioned Spentoli. "Not her first.
His odd eyes met hers with a shifting gleam of malice. "There is only one reason for which I would do that, ma chère," he said. "So she has not told you why she ran away with my friend Spentoli?" Maud shook her head. "She does not speak of it at all. I only know that she was unspeakably thankful to Jake for protecting her from him." "Ah!" Saltash's teeth showed for an instant.
You may laugh!" he said, in a fierce undertone. "You are without a soul." "Isn't it better to laugh?" queried Saltash. "Did you expect a blow in the face?" Spentoli glared for a moment, and recovered himself. "Do you know what they are saying of her?" he said. "They say that she is dying. But it is not true not true! Such beauty as that such loveliness could never die!"
They passed out through the throng of diners almost unobserved, but in the corridor Spentoli leaned against a pillar smoking a long, black cigar. He made no movement to intercept them, but his eyes with their restless fire dwelt upon the girl in a fashion that drew her own irresistibly. She saw him and slightly paused.
She looked exclusively at Saltash. Her bearing at that moment was that of a princess. "The car is ready?" she questioned. "Shall we go?" "By all means," said Saltash. He nodded a careless farewell to the other man, and followed her, a smile twitching at his lips, the gleam still in his eyes. "That man is Spentoli the sculptor," he said, as he handed her into the car. "A genius, Nonette!
"My dear Maud," he said, "there are a good many things I can't do, and one of them is this. I can't hold any woman against her will no, not if she were my wife ten times over. I wouldn't have let her go to Spentoli. But Bunny is a different matter. I have Jake's word for it that he will make her a better husband than I shall.
They were watching the great entrance-door expectantly for the coming of the celebrated dancer. Saltash called for a drink, and mingled with the throng. The Italian, Spentoli, came up presently and joined him. "I am hoping," he said, "that you will presently give me the great honour of presenting me to your bride." Saltash looked at him.
"When I came to her yesterday she told me of a child that had been born to her a child she had loved but had been unable to protect. It was a long story. Spentoli the Italian artist knows it from beginning to end. You know Spentoli?" "I know him," said Saltash. "Spentoli is a blackguard," Larpent said, "the sort that is born, not made afterwards. He has painted Rozelle over and over again.
He set her free. "You must look your best tonight. Wear blue! It is your colour. I shall present Spentoli to you. And tomorrow he will want to paint you." Toby stiffened. "That canaille!" she said. He looked at her in surprise. "What is the matter with you tonight, Nonette? You are hating all the world." Her blue eyes blazed. "I don't want to meet Spentoli," she said. "He has an evil eye.
She shook her head with vehemence. "And how do you know about Spentoli?" she demanded suddenly. "Who told you that?" "The man himself," said Saltash. "Ah! And what did he tell you?" A note of fierceness sounded in her voice. She seemed to gather herself together like a cornered animal preparing to make a wild dash for freedom.
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