There was a hypocritical sweetness in the tone of these words which had
not escaped the artist.

Philip had long been a master in the school of dissimulation, but Moor
knew him thoroughly, and understood the art of reading his heart.

This mode of expression from the king alarmed him more than a passionate
outburst of rage. He only spoke in this way when concealing what was
seething within. Besides, there was another token. The Netherlander
had intentionally commenced a conversation on art, and it was almost
unprecedented to find Philip disinclined to enter into one. The blow
had been scarcely perceptible, but Majesty will not endure a touch.

Philip did not wish to quarrel with the artist now, but he would remember
the incident, and woe betide him, if in some gloomy hour the sovereign
should recall the insult offered him here. Even the lightest blow from
the paw of this slinking tiger could inflict deep wounds--even death.

These thoughts had darted with the speed of lightning through the
artist's mind, and still lingered there as, respectfully declining to
take the palette, he replied "I beseech you, Sire, keep the brush and
colors, and correct what you dislike."

"That would mean to repaint the whole picture, and my time is limited,"
answered Philip. "You are responsible for your pupils' faults, as well
as for your own offences. Every one is granted, allowed, offered, what
is his due; is it not so, dear master? Another time, then, you shall
hear from me!" In the doorway the monarch kissed his hand to the artist,
then disappeared.