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Lady Dinsmore patted her hand with a tolerant smile. "It is you that the count wishes to paint, my dear, not a wizened old woman like me."

"If I might try both of you," the count replied. "Sometimes, with people who are my friends, the result is not so bad. The likeness, if it comes at all, comes quickly."

Lady Dinsmore laughed. "We will come, I promise you! Some afternoon——"

"Morning," he begged. "The light is better."

"Some morning, then," she agreed, "next week."

The curtain rose upon Nedda and Canio, who sang with love and bitterness and rage. Lady Dinsmore yawned behind her fan. At the end of the act she rose.

"Doris, my dear, I am going to follow the example of your father. This air is stifling, and we have a heavy day before us to-morrow. Cord, will you go for our things?"

It was the count who handed the ladies to their places in the unobtrusively elegant electric coupe, while Van Ingen stood doggedly at his elbow, awaiting a last word with Doris. He was bitterly jealous of his rival, who, to the boy's inflamed mind, seemed perversely lingering over his farewells.