"There was once a man called Wordsworth, I believe," was all the answer of that enigmatic creature.
"You're much of a pair, you and Mrs. Woodburn," snapped his wife as she left the room.
"My dear, you flatter me," replied the quiet vicar.
On the face of it, indeed, Mrs. Haggard had some ground for her anxiety about the girl.
Boy from the beginning was bred in the stables, lived in them, loved them.
At four she began to ride astride and had never known a side-saddle or worn a habit all her life. She took to the pigskin as a duck to water; and at seven, Monkey Brand, then in his riding prime, gave her up.
"She knows more'n me," he said, half in sorrow, half in pride, as his erstwhile pupil popped her pony over a Sussex heave-gate.
"Got wings, she have."
"Look-a-there!"
But the girl did not desert her first master. She would sit on a table in the saddle-room, swinging her legs, and shaking her fair locks as she listened bright-eyed while Monkey, busy on leather with soap and sponge, told again the familiar story of Cannibal's National.