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. 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. I saw a man’s feet--that was all.” “Well, there he was, for what reason the devil knows, perdu amongst the painter’s litter; and when he heard your little startled cry --most musical, most melancholy--what should he fancy but that you were frightened, and he must rush to the rescue! And so he did with a vengeance: I don’t know when I shall quite forget the blow he gave me.” And again Liftore laughed, or thought he did. “He struck you!” exclaimed Florimel, rather astonished, but hardly able for inward satisfaction to put enough of indignation into her tone.