"
Florimel's face flushed. Caley saw she was angry, and held her
peace.
Breakfast was hardly over, when Liftore walked in, looking pale,
and, in spite of his faultless get up, somewhat disreputable: for
shame, secret pain, and anger do not favour a good carriage or
honest mien. Florimel threw herself back in her chair--an action
characteristic of the bold faced countess, and held out her left
hand to him in an expansive, benevolent sort of way.
"How dare you come into my presence, looking so well pleased with
yourself, my lord, after giving me such a fright this morning?"
she said. "You might at least have made sure that there was--that
we were--"
She could not bring herself to complete the sentence.
"My dearest girl!" said his lordship, not only delighted to get off
so pleasantly, but profoundly flattered by the implied understanding,
"I found you in tears, and how could I think of anything else? It
may have been stupid, but I trust you will think it pardonable."
Caley had not fully betrayed her mistress to his lordship, and
he had, entirely to his own satisfaction, explained the liking
of Florimel for the society of the painter as the mere fancy of a
girl for the admiration of one whose employment, although nothing
above the servile, yet gave him a claim something beyond that of
a milliner or hair dresser, to be considered a judge in matters of
appearance.
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