“I don’t like that tire-woman of yours. She has two evil eyes-- one for each of us. I have again and again caught their expression when they were upon us, and she thought none were upon her: I can see without lifting my head when I am painting, and my art has made me quick at catching expressions, and, I hope, at interpreting them.” “I don’t altogether like her myself,” said Florimel. “Of late I am not so sure of her as I used to be. But what can I do? I must have somebody with me, you know.--A thought strikes me. Yes. I won’t say now what it is lest I should disappoint my--painter; but-- yes--you shall see what I will dare for you, faithless man!” She set off at a canter, turned on to the grass, and rode to meet Liftore, whom she saw in the distance returning, followed by the two grooms. “Come on, Raoul,” she cried, looking back; “I must account for you. He sees I have not been alone.” Lenorme joined her, and they rode along side by side. The earl and the painter knew each other: as they drew near, the painter lifted his hat, and the earl nodded. “You owe Mr Lenorme some acknowledgment, my lord, for taking charge of me after your sudden desertion,” said Florimel. “Why did you gallop off in such a mad fashion?” “I am sorry,” began Liftore a little embarrassed. “Oh! don’t trouble yourself to apologise,” said Florimel. “I have always understood that great horsemen find a horse more interesting than a lady. It is a mark of their breed, I am told.” She knew that Liftore would not be ready to confess he could not hold his hack. “If it hadn’t been for Mr Lenorme,” she added, “I should have been left without a squire, subject to any whim of my four-footed servant here.” As she spoke she patted the neck of her horse. The earl, on his side, had been looking the painter’s horse up and down with a would-be humorous expression of criticism. “I beg your pardon, marchioness,” he replied; “but you pulled up so quickly that we shot past you. I thought you were close behind, and preferred following.--Seen his best days, eh, Lenorme?” he concluded, willing to change the subject. “I fancy he doesn’t think so,” returned the painter. “I bought him out of a butterman’s cart, three months ago. He’s been coming to himself ever since. Look at his eye, my lord.” “Are you knowing in horses, then?” “I can’t say I am, beyond knowing how to treat them something like human beings.” “That’s no ill,” said Malcolm to himself. He was just near enough, on the pawing and foaming Kelpie, to catch what was passing.-- “The fallow ’ll du. He’s worth a score o’ sic yerls as yon.” “Ha! ha!” said his lordship; “I don’t know about that.--He’s not the best of tempers, I can see. But look at that demon of Lady Lossie’s--that black mare there! I wish you could teach her some of your humanity. “--By the way, Florimel, I think now we _are_ upon the grass,”-- he said it loftily, as if submitting to an injustice--“I will presume to mount the reprobate.”