“Next comes a young gentleman;—but this is a picture in another frame, although of the same night;—a young gentleman in evening dress, sipping his madeira, warm and comfortable, in the bland temper that should follow the best of dinners, his face beaming with satisfaction after some boast concerning himself, or with silent success in the concoction of one or two compliments to have at hand when he joins the ladies in the drawing-room.”
“Nobody can help such differences,” said Florimel. “If there were nobody rich, who would there be to do anything for the poor? It’s not the young gentleman’s fault that he is better born and has more money than the poor girl.”
“No,” said Malcolm; “but what if the poor girl has the young gentleman’s child to carry about from morning to night.”
“Oh, well! I suppose she’s paid for it,” said Florimel, whose innocence must surely have been supplemented by some stupidity, born of her flippancy.
“Do be quiet, Florimel,” said Clementina. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”
Her face was in a glow, and one glance at it set Florimel’s in a flame. She rose without a word, but with a look of mingled confusion and offence, and walked away. Clementina gathered her work together. But ere she followed her, she turned to Malcolm, looked him calmly in the face, and said,
“No one can blame you for hating such a man.”
“Indeed, my lady, but some one would—the only one for whose praise or blame we ought to care more than a straw or two. He tells us we are neither to judge nor to hate. But—”
“I cannot stay and talk with you,” said Clementina. “You must pardon me if I follow your mistress.”
Another moment and he would have told her all, in the hope of her warning Florimel. But she was gone.