“I don’t fancy you do, my lady; but this concerns biography rather than theology. No one could tell what I meant except he had watched his own history, and that of people he knew.” “And horses too?” “It’s hard to get at their insides, my lady, but I suspect it must be so. I’ll ask Mr Graham.” “What Mr Graham?” “The schoolmaster of Portlossie.” “Is he in London, then?” “Yes, my lady. He believed too much to please the presbytery, and they turned him out.” “I should like to see him. He was very attentive to my father on his death-bed.” “Your ladyship will never know till you are dead yourself what Mr Graham did for my lord.” “What do you mean? What could he do for him?” “He helped him through sore trouble of mind, my lady.” Florimel was silent for a little, then repeated, “I should like to see him. I ought to pay him some attention. Couldn’t I make them give him his school again?” “I don’t know about that, my lady; but I am sure he would not take it against the will of the presbytery.” “I should like to do something for him. Ask him to call.” “If your ladyship lays your commands upon me,” answered Malcolm; “otherwise I would rather not.” “Why so, pray?” “Because, except he can be of any use to you, he will not come.” “But I want to be of use to him.” “How, if I may ask, my lady?” “That I can’t exactly say on the spur of the moment. I must know the man first--especially if you are right in supposing he would not enjoy a victory over the presbytery. _I_ should. He wouldn’t take money, I fear.” “Except it came of love or work, he would put it from him as he would brush the dust from his coat.” “I could introduce him to good society. That is no small privilege to one of his station.” “He has more of that and better than your ladyship could give him. He holds company with Socrates and St. Paul, and greater still.” “But they’re not like living people.” “Very like them, my lady--only far better company in general. But Mr Graham would leave Plato himself--yes, or St. Paul either, though he were sitting beside him in the flesh, to go and help any old washerwoman that wanted him.” “Then I want him.” “No, my lady, you don’t want him.” “How dare you say so?” “If you did, you would go to him.” Florimel’s eyes flashed, and her pretty lip curled. She turned to her writing-table, annoyed with herself that she could not find a fitting word wherewith to rebuke his presumption--rudeness, was it not?--and a feeling of angry shame arose in her, that she, the Marchioness of Lossie, had not dignity enough to prevent her own groom from treating her like a child. But he was far too valuable to quarrel with. She sat down and wrote a note. “There,” she said, “take that note to Mr Lenorme. I have asked him to help you in the choice of a horse.” “What price would you be willing to go to, my lady?” “I leave that to Mr Lenorme’s judgment--and your own,” she added.