The painter was not merely in love with Florimel: he loved her.
I will not say that he was in no degree dazzled by her rank, or
that he felt no triumph, as a social nomad camping on the No Man's
Land of society, at the thought of the justification of the human
against the conventional, in his scaling of the giddy heights of
superiority, and, on one of its topmost peaks, taking from her nest
that rare bird in the earth, a landed and titled marchioness. But
such thoughts were only changing hues on the feathers of his love,
which itself was a mighty bird with great and yet growing wings.
A day or two passed before Florimel went again to the studio
accompanied, notwithstanding Lenorme's warning and her own doubt,
yet again by her maid, a woman, unhappily, of Lady Bellair's finding.
At Lossie House, Malcolm had felt a repugnance to her, both moral
and physical. When first he heard her name, one of the servants
speaking of her as Miss Caley, he took it for Scaley, and if that
was not her name, yet scaly was her nature.
This time Florimel rode to Chelsea with Malcolm, having directed
Caley to meet her there; and, the one designing to be a little early,
and the other to be a little late, two results naturally followed
--first, that the lovers had a few minutes alone; and second,
that when Caley crept in, noiseless and unannounced as a cat, she
had her desire, and saw the painter's arm round Florimel's waist,
and her head on his bosom.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224