"What a delicious night!" cried Mr. Scobel. "I think we ought all to walk home. It would be much nicer than being driven."
This he said with a lively recollection of Titmouse's performances on the journey out, and a lurking dread that he might behave a little worse on the journey home. A lively animal of that kind, going home to his stable, through the uncertain lights and shadows of woodland roads, and driven by such a charioteer as Violet Tempest, was not to be thought of without a shudder.
"I think I had better walk, in any case," said Mr. Scobel thoughtfully. "I shall be wanted to keep the children together."
"Let us all walk home," suggested Roderick. "We can go through the plantations. It will be very jolly in the moonlight. Bates can drive your pony back, Violet."
Vixen hesitated.
"It's not more than four miles through the plantations," said Roderick.
"Do you think I am afraid of a long walk?"
"Of course not. You were a modern Atalanta three years ago. I don't suppose a winter in Paris and a season at Brighton have quite spoiled you."
"It shall be as you like, Mrs. Scobel," said Vixen, appealing to the Vicar's wife.
"Oh, let us walk by all means," replied Mrs. Scobel, divining her husband's feelings with respect to Titmouse.