But there was one good process, by herself little regarded, going on in Florimel: notwithstanding the moral discomfort oftener than once occasioned her by Malcolm, her confidence in him was increasing; and now that the kind of danger threatening her seemed altered, she leaned her mind upon him not a little--and more than she could well have accounted for to herself on the only grounds she could have adduced--namely that he was an attendant authorized by her father, and, like herself loyal to his memory and will; and that, faithful as a dog, he would fly at the throat of anyone who dared touch her--of which she had had late proof, supplemented by his silent endurance of consequent suffering. Demon sometimes looked angry--when she teased him--had even gone so far as to bare his teeth; but Malcolm had never shown temper. In a matter of imagined duty, he might presume--but that was a small thing beside the sense of safety his very presence brought with it. She shuddered indeed at the remembrance of one look he had given her, but that had been for no behaviour to himself; and now that the painter was gone, she was clear of all temptation to the sort of thing that had caused it; and never, never more would she permit herself to be drawn into circumstances the least equivocal!--If only Lenorme would come back, and allow her to be his friend--his _best_ friend --his only young lady friend, leaving her at perfect liberty to do just as she liked, then all would be well--absolutely comfortable! In the meantime, life was endurable without him--and would be, provided Liftore did not make himself disagreeable. If he did, there were other gentlemen who might be induced to keep him in check: she would punish him--she knew how. She liked him better, however, than any of those.