‘Mr. Rollo with a petition!’ said Wych Hazel.  ’And impatient!  Well—­then why does he wait?’

His voice told well enough why he waited, at least in part; the earnestness of it was so blended with not a little anxiety and not a little tenderness.  He spoke slowly.

‘Miss Hazel,’ he said, ’you have neither father nor mother nor brother nor sister.  I am almost as much alone in the world.  May I speak to you as one who knows what it means?’

’ “It?”—­being alone?’ she said.

’Just that.  Having no one near enough to care or dear enough to dare, what would be for your happiness.  As it is so with you, and I know it, may I for once step into the gap, without being too severely punished by you for my venturing?’

‘Why I thought you always ventured,—­everything!’ she said, stirring up now in her surprise.

’Then shall I make my petition?  I never dared so much in my life as I am daring now.’

‘Of course you may make it,’ said Wych Hazel.  ’As fast as you like.  I shall begin to be impatient too.’

’If you choose to question me for my reasons, I will have the honour to give them.  Or if you ask what right I have to move in the matter, I will answer that, too.’

‘Beforehand?’

‘Certainly.  If you wish.’

‘No matter,’ she said, with a slight laugh which was yet a little disturbed.  What was looming up behind this barricade of preliminaries?  ’I thought you based your right just now—­ But never mind.  Go on, please.’

He was silent nevertheless a minute, while the old horse came to an unchallenged slow walk.  Then Rollo ungloved his right hand and held it out.

‘I cannot see your face,’ said he.  ’Give me your hand, so that I may know, while I hold it, that you are not displeased.’

‘Why, Mr. Rollo?’ said Hazel, with the same half laugh, ’you are very—­extraordinary!  It strikes me your one petition covers a good many.  Must I take the glove off?—­if you are to be indulged.’

‘There!’ said he, taking her hand in the same warm firm grasp she had known before.  ’I am going to ask you to promise me something—­that it will not be pleasant to promise.  Miss Hazel’—­speaking low and slowly—­’do not dance round dances any more!’

The tone was low, also it was very earnest and very grave.

‘What?’ she said, in a sort of but half comprehending way.  ’Why not? what is the matter with them?  I am hardly the least bit tired.’

‘You don’t know!’ he said, with a slight pressure of the hand he held.  ’You don’t know.  This is why not, Miss Hazel—­that I would not see my sister in them.  Do you understand?’

‘O yes,’ she answered.  ’I have seen people before who did not like dancing,—­two or three, perhaps.  But there is always somebody to dislike everything, I think.  You do not enjoy it yourself, Mr. Rollo,—­and so you do not know.’

’I have danced twenty dances where you have danced one.  I know what they are made of.  You only know how they look.’