‘Miss Kennedy,’ said Mr. Morton, extending his hand, ’you must allow me to express my admiration!  I wish other young ladies were so thoughtful and prudent.  But if they were, it would not make your conduct less remarkable.’  And Mr. Morton departed, while Wych Hazel, turning a sharp pirouette on one toe, dropped into her chair like a thistle down.  But all that appeared to the eyes of Mr. Dell was a somewhat extensive flutter of muslin.  He had no time to remark upon it nor upon anything else, as there immediately succeeded a flutter of muslin in another direction, just entering in by the door; which secondary flutter was furnished by the furbelows of Mrs. Fellows, the lawyer’s wife, and the scarf of Mrs. Dell, the mother of the clergyman himself.  There was no more question about angels.

CHAPTER XV.

TO MOSCHELOO.

The next morning Mr. Falkirk appeared in the breakfast-room, as was his very frequent, though not invariable wont.

‘I want your orders, Miss Hazel, about horses.’

Hazel—­deep in a great wicker tray of flowers—­looked up to consider the question.

’Well, sir,—­we want carriage horses of course,—­and saddle horses.  And I want a pony carriage.’

’I don’t think you need two carriages at present.  The pony carriage would have to have a pony.’

’Yes, sir.  Pony carriages, I believe, generally do.  I am not well enough known in the neighbourhood yet to expect other means of setting my wheels in motion.  But if I have nothing but that, Mr. Falkirk, then you and I can never go together.’

‘And if you do not have that, then you could not go alone.’

’Precisely, sir.  Mr. Falkirk, don’t you want a rose—­what shall I say! —­to—­do something to your meditations?’ And before Mr. Falkirk had time to breathe, she was down on her knees at his side, and fastening an exquisite “Duchess of Thuringia” in his buttonhole.

‘Yes, I look like it,’ said he grimly, but suffering her fingers to do their will nevertheless.  ’Miss Hazel, if the princess goes about in a pony carriage, I shall be in daily expectation of its turning into a pumpkin, and leaving her on the ground somewhere.’

’No, sir.  Not the least fear of your turning into an amiable godmother,—­and you know that was essential.’

‘Ponies are ugly things,’ said Mr. Falkirk ruefully.  ’However, I’ll ask Rollo; and if he can find one, that suits him——­’

‘Then do let him keep it!’ interposed Miss Hazel, facing round.  ‘What possible concern of Mr. Rollo’s are my horses?’

’Simply that I am going to ask him to choose them.  He knows more about such things than any one else, and I dare say he will give me his help.  I wanted to know your fancy, though very likely it can’t be met, about the other horses; colour and so forth.’

‘Not white—­and not black,’ said Wych Hazel.  ’And not sorrel—­ nor cream.’