“Who told you I wanted you out of the house? By Jove! I should have made shorter work of it. What put that in your head? Why should I?”
“Gien yer lordship kens nane, sma’ occasion hae I to haud a rizzon to yer han’. I thoucht—but the thoucht itsel’s impidence.”
“You young fool! You thought, because I came upon you as I did in the garret the other night—Bah!—You damned ape! As if I could not trust—! Pshaw!”
For the moment Malcolm forgot how angry his master had certainly been, although, for Florimel’s sake doubtless, he had restrained himself; and fancied that, in the faint light of the one candle, he had seen little to annoy him, and had taken the storm and its results, which were indeed the sole reason, as a sufficient one for their being alone together. Everything seemed about to come right again. But his master remained silent.
“I houp my leddy’s weel,” ventured Malcolm at length.
“Quite well. She’s with Lady Bellair, in Edinburgh.”
Lady Bellair was the bold-faced countess.
“I dinna like her,” said Malcolm.
“Who the devil asked you to like her?” said the marquis. But he laughed as he said it.
“I beg yer lordship’s pardon,” returned Malcolm. “I said it ’or I kent. It was nane o’ my business wha my leddy was wi’.”