That was the worst of it!—­it was a thing to see.  And so, while now and then one of her special gentlemen friends would interpose, and draw the strokes upon himself; yet her delicate, womanly fencing was so pretty, so novel; it was such sport to watch the little hands turn off and parry Kitty Fisher’s rude thrusts; that few masculine hearts were unselfish enough to forego it.  There were actual wagers out as to how long ‘the Duchess’ could carry it on without losing her temper or clipping the truth; and how soon ‘the Fisher’ would get tired and give it up.  And as for the tokens in Miss Kennedy’s face sometimes, who that had once seen them did not watch to see them again?  Other people began to take up the new titles; and Mme. Lasalle made courtesies to ‘the Duchess,’ and Stuart Nightingale and Mr. May bowed low before ‘her Grace,’ entreating her hand for the quadrille or the promenade.

‘And some night he will be standing by and hear them say it!’ thought Wych Hazel to herself.  What should she do?  Where should she go?

Since the talk on the drive home from Mme. Lasalle’s, the girl had never set foot in one the round dances.  Not that she gave in to Mr. Rollo’s strictures,—­how could she be mistaken?—­but because the talk had left an unbearable association about everything that looked like a round dance.  There was the constant remembrance of the words he had spoken,—­there was the constant fear that he might stand by and think those thoughts again.  Then she had been extremely disgusted with Kitty Fisher’s new figures; and so, on the whole, in the face of persuasions and charges of affectation, Miss Kennedy could be had for nothing but reels, country dances, and quadrilles.  Miss Fisher and her set were furious, of course; for all the gentlemen liked what Miss Kennedy liked:  there was no use talking about it.

If anybody had asked the girl in those weeks before the fancy ball what she was doing—­and why she wanted to do it,—­she would have found it hard to tell.  Braving out people’s tongues, was one thing; and plunging into all sorts of escapades because any day they might be forbidden, was another.  A sort of wild resolving that her young guardian should not feel his power; and endeavour to prove to him that anybody aspiring to that office without her leave asked and obtained, was likely to serve a short term.

‘Is it only till you marry, my dear?—­or is it for life?’ Mme. Lasalle said, meaningly.  And Hazel laughed off an answer, and set her little foot down (mentally) with tremendous force.  Wouldn’t she marry whom she liked—­if she liked?

’He proposes to make you his wife’—­Mrs. Coles had said.  She would like to know what his ‘proposing’ had to do with it?—­ except, perhaps, as an initiatory step.

It was a new version of Katharine and Petruchio,—­sneered Kitty Fisher.

It was a striking instance of disinterested benevolence—­in so young a man! chimed in Mrs. Seaton,—­until at last Hazel rushed into anything that would put a black coat or whirl of white muslin between her and her tormentors.  If she was in truth running away from herself as well, the confusion was too great for her to know it just then.  The very idea of stopping to think what he meant and what she meant, frightened her; and then she ran faster than ever.