“My lady!” she shrieked, “there’s MacPhail, the groom, my lady, dressed up in your honoured father’s bee-utiful clo’es as he always wore when he went to dine with the Prince! And, please, my lady, he’s that rude I could ’ardly keep my ’ands off him.” Florimel flashed a dagger of question in Lenorme’s eyes. The painter drew himself up. “It was at my request, Lady Lossie,” he said. “Indeed!” returned Florimel, in high scorn, and glanced again at the picture. “I see!” she went on. “How could I be such an idiot! It was my groom’s, not my father’s likeness you meant to surprise me with!” Her eyes flashed as if she would annihilate him. “I have worked hard in the hope of giving you pleasure, Lady Lossie,” said the painter, with wounded dignity. “And you have failed,” she adjoined cruelly. The painter took the miniature after which he had been working, from a table near, handed it to her with a proud obeisance, and the same moment dashed a brushful of dark paint across the face of the picture. “Thank you, sir,” said Florimel, and for a moment felt as if she hated him. She turned away and walked from the study. The door of the drawing-room was open, and Caley stood by the side of it. Florimel, too angry to consider what she was about, walked in: there sat Malcolm in the window, in her father’s clothes, and his very attitude, reading the newspaper. He did not hear her enter. He had been waiting till he could reach the bedroom unseen by her, for he knew from the sound of the voices that the study door was open. Her anger rose yet higher at the sight. “Leave the room,” she said. He started to his feet, and now perceived that his sister was in the dress of a servant. He took one step forward and stood--a little mazed--gorgeous in dress and arms of price, before his mistress in the cotton gown of a housemaid. “Take those clothes off instantly,” said Florimel slowly, replacing wrath with haughtiness as well as she might. Malcolm turned to the door without a word. He saw that things had gone wrong where most he would have wished them go right. “I’ll see to them being well aired, my lady,” said Caley, with sibilant indignation. Malcolm went to the study. The painter sat before the picture of the marquis, with his elbows on his knees, and his head between his hands. “Mr Lenorme,” said Malcolm, approaching him gently. “Oh, go away,” said Lenorme, without raising his head. “I can’t bear the sight of you yet.” Malcolm obeyed, a little smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Caley saw it as he passed, and hated him yet worse. He was in his own clothes, booted and belted, in two minutes. Three sufficed to replace his father’s garments in the portmanteau, and in three more he and Kelpie went plunging past his mistress and her maid as they drove home in their lumbering vehicle. “The insolence of the fellow!” said Caley, loud enough for her mistress to hear notwithstanding the noise of the rattling windows. “A pretty pass we are come to!”