The first result was that, on the pretext of bidding him farewell,
and convincing him that he and she must meet no more, fate and
fortune, society and duty being all alike against their happiness
--I mean on that pretext to herself, the only one to be deceived
by it--Florimel arranged with her woman one evening to go the next
morning to the studio: she knew the painter to be an early riser,
and always at his work before eight o'clock. But although she tried
to imagine she had persuaded herself to say farewell, certainly
she had not yet brought her mind to any ripeness of resolve in the
matter.
At seven o'clock in the morning, the marchioness habited like a
housemaid, they slipped out by the front door, turned the corners
of two streets, found a hackney coach waiting for them, and arrived
in due time at the painter's abode.
CHAPTER XXX: A QUARREL
When the door opened and Florimel glided in, the painter sprang to
his feet to welcome her, and she flew softly, soundless as a moth,
into his arms; for the study being large and full of things, she
was not aware of the presence of Malcolm. From behind a picture
on an easel, he saw them meet, but shrinking from being an open
witness to their secret, and also from being discovered in his
father's clothes by the sister who knew him only as a servant, he
instantly sought escape.
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