“I,” said Rose, who hugged a puppy in her arms—­a puppy long possessed, but only now old enough to leave its mother—­“I am going in the buggy with Jim.”

“Wouldn’t you rather go in the pony-carriage?” inquired Carey anxiously.  “You could make a better lap on the lower seat.  I could ride your horse home for you if they’ll lend me a saddle; yours could be put in the buggy—­”

Even as he spoke, Deb came round the corner from somewhere, with swift steps and a brilliant complexion, Dalzell hurrying after her.

“Mr Carey,” she called, while the sailor was still yards away from her, “Molly and I are going to change skirts.  I am tired with my ride this morning, and am going to drive home.  Will you trust your neck to me?”

Would he not, indeed?  He was but a pawn in the game, but what did that matter?  Eighteen miles absolutely alone with her!  And possibly half of them in the dark!  No saddle horse in the world could have tempted him now.  He could hardly speak his gratitude and joy.

“Delighted, Miss Deborah!—­delighted!—­delighted!”

But Dalzell, black as thunder, swung aside, muttering in his teeth.

“Oh, oh!” Francie’s loud whisper followed.  “Did you hear what he said?  He said ‘damn’.  That’s because—­”

“You cut along,” Jim’s drawl broke in, “and get ready if you want to ride.”

Mr Thornycroft tucked Deb into the pony-carriage with the solicitude of a mother fixing up a young baby going out with its nurse.  He insisted that she should wear a shawl over her linen jacket, and brought forth an armful of softest wool, Indian wove.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, fondling it, for she loved fine fabrics.

“Never mind,” said he.  “Put it on.”

“I am suspicious of these shawls and fallals that Bundaboo seems full of.  Who is the hidden lady?”

He only smiled at her.

“Ah, godpapa, you spoil me!”

She drew the wrap about her, and he assisted to adjust it, with gentle skill.  Then he turned abruptly to Carey, as to a groom.

“See that she doesn’t throw that off.  It will be chilly presently.  No, she’d better drive—­she knows the road.  But take care of her.  Good-night.”

“Isn’t he an old dear?” said Deb to Carey, as they drove off.  “He has been a second father to me ever since I was a child.”

She did not hurry the ponies, being anxious not to appear to be tearing after her offended swain.

“The evening is the pleasantest time to be out, this weather,” she said, lolling back in her seat.  “And I’m sure I don’t want to look at dinner after such a lunch as I have eaten.  I don’t know how you feel.”

“I feel the same,” he assured her, with truth.