‘Of Dr. Maryland’s!—­O that is good,’ said Wych Hazel.  ’Is she like Primrose?’

‘She is more—­like—­a purple snap dragon,’ said Stuart, reflectively.  ’Do you read characters in flowers? and then look out for their moral prototypes in the social world?’

’I do not believe I ever had the credit of “looking out” for anything!—­Good evening, Mr. Simms.’

’ “It was the witching hour of night!” ’—­quoted Mr. Simms with a deprecating gesture.  ’Really, Miss Kennedy, I do not see why the story books make it out such a misfortune for a man to be turned to stone.  I think, in some circumstances, it is surely the best thing that can happen to him.  There is Nightingale, now—­he would feel no end better for a slight infusion of silica!’—­and with another profound reverence, Mr. Simms moved off.

’I should like to see the philosopher that would make an infusion of silica!’ muttered Stuart. ’He’s never drunk it.  What is the use of poets in the world, Miss Kennedy?’

‘To furnish people with quotations—­as a general thing,’ said Wych Hazel.

’Precisely my idea.  And that’s stupid, for people don’t want them.  It looks bright out among Mrs. Powder’s bushes—­shall we go and try how it feels?’

It was pretty, and pleasant.  Moonlight and lamps do make a witching world of it; and under the various lights flitted such a multitude of gay creatures that Mr. Falkirk’s favourite allusion to Enchanted ground would have been more than usually appropriate.  All the colours in the rainbow, gleaming by turns in all possible alternations and degrees of light and shadow; a moving kaleidoscope of humanity; the eye at least was entertained.  And Stuart endeavoured to find entertainment for the ear of his companion.  They wandered up and down, in and out; not meeting many people; in the changing lights it was easy to miss anybody at pleasure.  In the course of the walk Stuart begged for a ride with Miss Kennedy, again negatived on the plea that Miss Kennedy’s horses were not yet come.  Stuart immediately besought to be allowed to supply that want for the occasion.  His aunt had a nice little Canadian pony.

‘I cannot tell,’ said Wych Hazel, gaily.  ’You know I must ask Mr. Falkirk.’

‘You do not mean that?’ said Stuart.

‘Why of course I mean it.’

’Is it possible you are in such bondage?  But by the way, there is going to be some singing presently, which I think you will like.  I have been counting upon it for you.’

‘Is there?’ she said,—­’where?  You are right in the fact, Mr. Nightingale, but quite wrong as to terms.  I mean, the terms give a false impression of the fact.  Where is the music to be, Mr. Rollo?’ For Rollo, prowling about in the shrubbery, had at the moment joined them.  He answered rather absently, that he believed it was to be in the garden.

’Do you understand, Mr. Nightingale?’—­Wych Hazel resumed, turning to her other companion—­’that is a mistake.’