It was very much later in the day, long after Marjorie had departed led by an indignant nurse muttering to herself regarding the carelessness of "them artists," for not only Marjorie's face, but her best white dress was covered with various smears of brown chocolate--it was long after this that Paul looked once more at his pocket-book. He looked at it to make sure that the hour Christopher would arrive for him was four-fifteen, and not four o'clock. The former was there plainly inscribed, written by Paul with a small gold pencil.
There were just two entries for that day--Friday, November 27th, "M.A. 10 o'clock" and "4.15 o'clock. C.C." Little did Paul think as he looked at it that he would treasure that small page as one would treasure one's passage to heaven.
Christopher arrived at the studio punctually to the second, and found Paul ready for him. The two turned into Oakley Street and came down towards the Embankment. It was already past sunset, and the houses and river were shrouded in a soft mist. They reached the house near Swan Walk and went up the steps.
"The Duchessa di Corleone at home?" asked Christopher of the footman who opened the door.
"Will you come this way, sir," was the answer, and he led them up the wide shallow stairs. He threw open a door.
Paul saw a room of pale lavenders, with the chrysanthemums like patches of sunlight. A woman rose from a chair by the fire and came forward to greet them. The window was behind her as she came forward, and the room being in twilight he could not see her face distinctly, but he saw the outlines of her graceful figure, and caught the glint of her red-brown hair.
"It is very charming of you to come and see me, Mr. Treherne," she said. "Pietro, the lights."
Paul heard the sound of three or four tiny clickings near the door, and the room became full of a soft mellow light. Had the light been a trifle brighter, or her voice a shade less natural, the whole thing might have verged on the theatrical. As it was, it was simply a revelation to Paul as, for the first time, he saw the Duchessa di Corleone.
She stood before him smiling--a smile that just lit up her eyes and trembled on her mouth. He saw that her skin was smooth like ivory, that her lips were crimson like wine beneath oiled silk, that her hair was the colour of a chestnut newly wrested from its sheath.