Malcolm did as he was told, and walked straight up to the Temple of Isis, in which the painter had now long been at work on the goddess. He recognised his sister at once, but a sudden pinch of prudence checked the exclamation that had almost burst from his lips.
“What a beautiful picture!” he said. “What does it mean?— Surely it is Hermione coming to life, and Leontes dying of joy! But no; that would not fit. They are both too young, and——”
“You read Shakspere, I see,” said Lenorme, “as well as Epictetus.”
“I do—a good deal,” answered Malcolm. “But please tell me what you painted this for.”
Then Lenorme told him the parable of Novalis, and Malcolm saw what the poet meant. He stood staring at the picture, and Lenorme sat working away, but a little anxious—he hardly knew why: had he bethought himself he would have put the picture out of sight before Malcolm came.
“You wouldn’t be offended if I made a remark, would you, Mr Lenorme?” said Malcolm at length.
“Certainly not,” replied Lenorme, something afraid nevertheless of what might be coming.
“I don’t know whether I can express what I mean,” said Malcolm, “but I’ll try. I could do it better in Scotch, I believe, but then you wouldn’t understand me.”
“I think I should,” said Lenorme. “I spent six months in Edinburgh once.”
“Ow ay! but ye see they dinna thraw the words there jist the same gait they du at Portlossie. Na, na! I maunna attemp’ it.”