"She's a very ladylike, handsome woman--handsome enough to be
your mother even, Mr Malcolm Stewart."
Florimel could not have dared the words but for the distance between
them; but, then, neither would she have said them while the distance
was greater! They were lost on Malcolm though, for never in his
life having started the question whether he was handsome or not, he
merely supposed her making game of him, and drew himself together
in silence, with the air of one bracing himself to hear and endure
the worst.
"Even if she should not be your mother," his tormentor resumed,
"to show such a dislike to any woman is nothing less than cruelty."
"She maun pruv' 't," murmured Malcolm--not the less emphatically
that the words were but just audible.
"Of course she will not do that; she has abundance of proof. She
gave me a whole hour of proof."
"Lang's no strang," returned Malcolm "there's comfort i' that! Gang
on my leddy."
"Poor woman! it was hard enough to lose her son; but to find him
again such as you seem likely to turn out, I should think ten times
worse."
"Nae doobt! nae doobt!--But there's ae thing waur."
"What is that?"
"To come upon a mither 'at--"
He stopped abruptly; his eyes went wandering about the room, and
the muscles of his face worked convulsively.
Florimel saw that she had been driving against a stone wall. She
paused a moment, and then resumed.
"Anyhow, if she is your mother," she said, "nothing you can do will
alter it.
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