"I'm going to walk home with Mr. Vawdrey," she said.
"But, Vixen, I can't, really," said Roderick; "I'm due at home at this moment, only I couldn't leave without saying good-bye to little Vix."
"And you're over due at Oxford, too, aren't you?" cried Vixen, laughing; "you're always due somewhere—never in the right place. But whether you are due or not, you're coming up to the stables with me to give Titmouse his apples, and then you're coming to dine with us on your last night at home. I insist upon it; papa insists; mamma insists—we all insist."
"My mother will be as angry as——"
"Old boots!" interjected Vixen. "That's the best comparison I know."
"Awfully vulgar for a young lady."
"You taught it me. How can I help being vulgar when I associate with you? You should hear Miss McCroke preach at me sermons so long"—here Vixen extended her arms to the utmost—"and I'm afraid they'd make as much impression on Titmouse as they do upon me. But she's a dear old thing, and I love her immensely."
This was Vixen's usual way, making up for all shortcomings with the abundance of her love. The heart was always atoning for the errors of the head.
"I wouldn't be Miss McCroke for anything. She must have a bad time of it with you."
"She has," assented Vixen, with a remorseful sigh; "I fear I'm bringing her sandy hairs with sorrow to the grave. That hair of hers never could be gray, you know, it's too self-opinionated in its sandiness. Now come along, Rorie, do. Titmouse will be stamping about his box like a maniac if he doesn't get those apples."