As to anything more in the affair--and with him in
the field--of such a notion he was simply incapable: he could
not have wronged the lady he meant to honour with his hand, by
regarding it as within the bounds of the possible.
"It was no wonder I was crying," said Florimel. "A seraph would
have cried to see the state my father's portrait was in."
"Your father's portrait!"
"Yes. Did you not know? Mr Lenorme has been painting one from a
miniature I lent him--under my supervision, of course; and just
because I let fall a word that showed I was not altogether satisfied
with the likeness, what should the wretched man do but catch up a
brush full of filthy black paint, and smudge the face all over!"
"Oh, Lenorme will soon set it to rights again. He's not a bad fellow
though he does belong to the genus irritabile. I will go about it
this very day."
"You'll not find him, I'm sorry to say. There's a note I had from
him yesterday. And the picture's quite unfit to be seen--utterly
ruined. But I can't think how you could miss it!"
"To tell you the truth, Florimel, I had a bit of a scrimmage after
you left me in the studio." Here his lordship did his best to
imitate a laugh. "Who should come rushing upon me out of the back
regions of paint and canvas but that mad groom of yours! I don't
suppose you knew he was there?"
"Not I.
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