“Thank you, my lady,” said Malcolm, and was leaving the room, when Florimel called him back. “Next time you see Mr Graham,” she said, “give him my compliments, and ask him if I can be of any service to him.” “I’ll do that, my lady. I am sure he will take it very kindly.” Florimel made no answer, and Malcolm went to find the painter. CHAPTER XXIII. PAINTER AND GROOM. The address upon the note Malcolm had to deliver took him to a house in Chelsea--one of a row of beautiful old houses fronting the Thames, with little gardens between them and the road. The one he sought was overgrown with creepers, most of them now covered with fresh spring buds. The afternoon had turned cloudy, and a cold east wind came up the river, which, as the tide was falling, raised little waves on its surface and made Malcolm think of the herring. Somehow, as he went up to the door, a new chapter of his life seemed about to commence. The servant who took the note, returned immediately, and showed him up to the study, a large back room, looking over a good-sized garden, with stables on one side. There Lenorme sat at his easel. “Ah!” he said, “I’m glad to see that wild animal has not quite torn you to pieces. Take a chair. What on earth made you bring such an incarnate fury to London?” “I see well enough now, sir, she’s not exactly the one for London use, but if you had once ridden her, you would never quite enjoy another between your knees.” “She’s such an infernal brute!” “You can’t say too ill of her. But I fancy a gaol chaplain sometimes takes the most interest in the worst villain under his charge. I should be a proud man to make _her_ fit to live with decent people.” “I’m afraid she’ll be too much for you. At last you’ll have to part with her, I fear.” “If she had bitten you as often as she has me, sir, you wouldn’t part with her. Besides, it would be wrong to sell her. She would only be worse with anyone else. But, indeed, though you will hardly believe it, she is better than she was.” “Then what must she have been!” “You may well say that, sir!” “Here your mistress tells me you want my assistance in choosing another horse.” “Yes, sir--to attend upon her in London.” “I don’t profess to be knowing in horses: what made you think of me?” “I saw how you sat your own horse, sir, and I heard you say you bought him out of a butterman’s cart, and treated him like a human being: that was enough for me, sir. I’ve long had the notion that the beasts, poor things, have a half-sleeping, half-waking human soul in them, and it was a great pleasure to hear you say something of the same sort. ‘That gentleman,’ I said to myself, ‘--he and I would understand one another.’”