"I tell you the truth.
I'm sorry I spoke to your ladyship as I did this morning. It was
the sight of my poor dog that drove me mad."
"I couldn't help it. I tried to keep mine off him, as you know."
"I do know it, my lady, and that's why I beg your pardon."
"Then there's nothing more to be said."
"Yes, there is, my lady: I want to make you some amends. I know
more than most people, and I know a secret that some would give
their ears for. Will you trust me?"
"I will hear what you've got to say."
"Well, I don't care whether you believe me or not: I shall tell
you nothing but the truth. What do you think of Malcolm MacPhail,
my lady?"
"What do you mean by asking me such a question?"
"Only to tell you that by birth he is a gentleman, and comes of an
old family."
"But why do you tell me?" said Florimel. "What have I to do with
it?"
"Nothing, my lady--or himself either. I hold the handle of the
business. But you needn't think it's from any favour for him. I
don't care what comes of him. There's no love lost between him and
me. You heard yourself this very day, how he abused both me and my
poor dog who is now lying dead on the bed beside me!"
"You don't expect me to believe such nonsense as that!" said Lady
Florimel.
There was no reply. The voice had departed; and the terrors of her
position returned with gathered force in the desolation of redoubled
silence that closes around an unanswered question. A trembling
seized her, and she could hardly persuade herself that she was not
slipping by slow inches down the incline.
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