d Vixen naively.

"You will have to put a stop to these rides with Roderick. Everybody in
the neighbourhood is talking about you."

"Which everybody?"

"Colonel Carteret to begin with."

"Colonel Carteret slanders everybody. It is his only intellectual
resource. Dearest mother, be your own sweet easy-tempered self, not a
speaking-tube for Captain Winstanley. Pray leave me my liberty. I am
not particularly happy. You might at least let me be free."

Violet left her mother with these words. They had reached the lawn
before the drawing-room windows. Mrs. Winstanley sank into a low
basket-chair, like a hall-porter's, which a friend had sent her from
the sands of Trouville; and Vixen ran off to the stables to see if
Arion was in any way the worse for his long round.

The horses had been littered down for the night, and the stable-yard
was empty. The faithful Bates, who was usually to be found at this hour
smoking his evening pipe on a stone bench beside the stable pump, was
nowhere in sight. Vixen went into Arion's loose-box, where that animal
was nibbling clover lazily, standing knee-deep in freshly-spread straw,
his fine legs carefully bandaged. He gave his mistress the usual grunt
of friendly greeting, allowed her to feed him with the choicest bits of
clover, and licked her hands in token of gratitude.

"I don't think you're any the worse for our canter over the grass, old
pet," she cried cheerily, as she caressed his sleek head, "and Captain
Winstanley's black looks can't hurt you."

As she left the stable she saw Bates, who was walking slowly across the
court-yard, wiping his honest old eyes with the cuff of her drab coat,
and hanging his grizzled head dejectedly.

Vixen ran to him with her cheeks aflame, divining mischief. The Captain
had been wreaking his spite upon this lowly head.

"What's the matter, Bates?"

"I've lived in this house, Miss Voylet, man and boy, forty year come
Michaelmas, and I've never wronged my master by so much as the worth of
a handful o' wuts or a carriage candle. I was stable-boy in your
grandfeyther's time, miss, as is well-beknown to you; and I remember
your feyther when he was the finest and handsomest young squire within
fifty mile. I've loved you and yours better than I ever loved my own
flesh and blood: and to go and pluck me up by the roots and chuck me
out amongst strangers in my old age, is crueller than it would be to
tear up the old cedar on the lawn, which I've heard