“What do you mean?” said Cecil, in a voice of hurt dignity.

“I may mean myself.”  And Rosamond’s peal of merry laughter was most amazing and inexplicable to her companion, who was not sure that she was not presuming to laugh at her.

There was a silence, broken at last by Rosamond.  “Cecil, I have been tumbled about the world a good deal more than you have, and I never found that one got any good by disregarding the warnings of the natives.  There’s an immense deal in the cat and the cock.”

“I do not understand, said Cecil.

Whereupon Rosamond, in a voice as if she were telling the story to a small child, began:  “Once upon a time there was a wee bit mousiekie, that lived in Giberatie O—­that trotted out of her hole upon an exploring expedition.  By and by she came scuttling back in a state of great trepidation—­in fact, horribly nervous.  ’Mother, mother!’ said the little mouse, ’I’ve seen a hideous monster, with a red face, and a voice like a trumpet, and a pair of spurs.’”

“Of course, I know that,” broke in Cecil.

“Ah, you haven’t heard all.  ‘I should have died of terror,’ said the little mouse, ’only that I saw a dear sweet graceful creature, with a lovely soft voice, and a smooth coat, and the most beautiful eyes, and the most exquisite pathetic expression in her smile; and she held out her velvet paw to me, and said, ’Dear little mousiekie-pousie, you’re the loveliest creature I ever met, quite unappreciated in these parts.  That horrid old cock is terribly vulgar and commonplace; and never you believe your mother if she tells you he is better worth cultivating than one who has such a deep genuine love and appreciation of all the excellences of all mice, and of you in particular with your dun fur.’”

Rosamond could not for her very life help putting in that word dun; and Cecil, who had been driving straight on with her eyes fixed on her pony’s ears, and rather a sullen expression of forced endurance, faced about.  “What you mean by all this I don’t know; but if you think it applies to me or my friends, you are much mistaken.”

“I told you,” said Rosamond, with the same languor, looking out under her half-shut eyes, “that I apply things to myself.  I’ve met both sorts in my time.”

And silence reigned for the rest of the way.  Cecil had read many more books, knew much more, and was altogether a far more cultivated personage than the Lady Rosamond; but she was not half so ready in catching the import of spoken words; and all this time she was by no means certain whether all this meant warning or meant mockery, though either was equally impertinent, and must be met with the same lady-like indifference, which Cecil trusted that she had never transgressed.