“We used to think he drank too much,” suggested Malcolm.
“Claret,” said Wallis, in a tone that seemed to imply no one could drink too much of that.
“No, not claret only. I’ve seen the whisky follow the claret.”
“Well, he don’t now—not whisky at least. He don’t drink too much—not much too much—not more than a gentleman should. He don’t look like it—does he now? A good wife, such as my Lady Lossie will make him, will soon set him all right. I think of taking a similar protection myself, one of these days.”
“He is not worthy of her,” said Malcolm.
“Well, I confess his family won’t compare with hers. There’s a grandfather in it somewhere that was a banker or a brewer or a soap boiler, or something of the sort, and she and her people have been earls and marquises ever since they walked arm in arm out of the ark. But, bless you! all that’s been changed since I came to town. So long as there’s plenty of money and the mind to spend it, we have learned not to be exclusive. It’s selfish that. It’s not Christian. Everything lies in the mind to spend it though. Mrs Tredger— that’s our lady’s-maid—only this is a secret—says it’s all settled—she knows it for certain fact—only there’s nothing to be said about it yet—she’s so young, you know.”
“Who was the man that sat nearly opposite my lady, on the other side of the table?” asked Malcolm.
“I know who you mean. Didn’t look as if he’d got any business there —not like the rest of them, did he? No, they never do. Odd and end sort of people like he is, never do look the right thing— let them try ever so hard. How can they when they ain’t it? That’s a fellow that’s painting Lady Lossie’s portrait! Why he should be asked to dinner for that, I’m sure I can’t tell. He ain’t paid for it in victuals, is he? I never saw such land leapers let into Lossie House, I know! But London’s an awful place. There’s no such a thing as respect of persons here. Here you meet the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, any night in my lady’s drawing-room. I declare to you, Mawlcolm MacPhail, it makes me quite uncomfortable at times to think who I may have been waiting upon without knowing it. For that painter-fellow, Lenorme they call him, I could knock him on the teeth with the dish every time I hold it to him. And to see him stare at Lady Lossie as he does!”
“A painter must want to get a right good hold of the face he’s got to paint,” said Malcolm. “Is he here often?”
“He’s been here five or six times already,” answered Wallis, “and how many times more I may have to fill his glass, I don’t know. I always give him second-best sherry, I know. I’m sure the time that pictur’s been on hand! He ought to be ashamed of himself. If she’s been once to his studio, she’s been twenty times—to give him sittings, as they call it. He’s making a pretty penny of it, I’ll be bound! I wonder he has the cheek to show himself when my lady treats him so haughtily. But those sort of people have no proper feelin’s, you see: it’s not to be expected of such.”