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.
“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.