“Ay, sir; 't is more than possible. The insolent hussy has oft cast up her eyes at our box in the playhouse, ogling His Grace, if you please. The fool little knew that she was ogling a slumbering man. Nay, Sir Godfrey, if I were as sure of my ground in other directions as I am of His Grace, I were a happy woman.” She took her place on the dais, and the expression of pensiveness which appears on the face of the portrait became intensified. This fact, however, did not prevent a dainty little fist from quivering in her direction from the side of the full-length picture in the corner. The Duchess had her back turned to that particular corner. “Your Grace deserves to be the happiest of women,” said the painter. “If only to give so admirable a limner an opportunity of depicting a smiling face,” said the Duchess. “Nay, madam, a smile doth not make a picture,” replied Sir Godfrey. “On the contrary, it oft destroys one. Your painter of smirking goddesses finds his vocation at the Fair of St. Bartolemy. I would fain hope that I am not such.” There was a silence, during which Sir Godfrey painted the hair upon his canvas with his usual dexterity. Then Her Grace sighed. “Know you the best means of bringing back an errant confidence, Sir Godfrey?” she asked after another long pause. “An errant confidence, madam?” “The confidence of one whom I love, and who I think would fain love me still, were it not for the tongue of slander.” “Nay, your Grace, I am but a painter; no Rubens am I in the skill that pertains to an envoy. Still, it occurs to me that the rendering of some signal service to the one whose mood your Grace describes should bring you to her heart again.” The Duchess sprang from her chair and began pacing the narrow limits of the dais, her hands clenched, and the expression on her face becoming one of passion solely. “Some signal service--some signal service!” she cried. “Man, have I not grown aged in her service? Who among those around her hath shown her and hers such service as ours has been--my husband's and mine? And yet when she hears the rumour of a plot she taunts me that I was not the first to warn her. Heavens! Does it rest with me to see the word 'conspirator' branded on the flesh of one who may hap to wear a cuirass? Is there any skill that will enable mine eyes to perceive in a man's bearing an adherent to the family at St. Germains? By the Lord, Sir Godfrey Kneller, I may be tried too much. Think you that if we were to turn our eyes in the direction of St. Germains there would not be a goodly number of persons in this realm who would turn their eyes and their coats with us?” “For God's sake, madam--”