'Simply that I am going to ask him to choose them. He knows more about such things than any one else, and I dare say he will give me his help. I wanted to know your fancy, though very likely it can't be met, about the other horses; colour and so forth.'
'Not white—and not black,' said Wych Hazel. 'And not sorrel— nor cream.'
'That is lucid. You said saddle horses—Ah! what's this?'
It was a little combination of brisk sounds in the hall, followed by the entrance of Rollo himself in a gray fisherman's dress. Unless he was very hard to suit he might have enjoyed the picture now opened before him. The pretty room, with its garden outlook; the breakfast table, bright and quaint together, with its old-time furnishings; and flowers everywhere, arranged and un-arranged. As he came in, Wych Hazel had just (quite surreptitiously) hung a garland of pansies on the high carved peak of Mr. Falkirk's chair, and then dropped into her own place; with a De Rohan rose in the belt of her gray dress. Not in the least like Roll's gray, but white with the edge taken off, like a pale cloud.
'So!' she said, looking up at him as he stood beside her,— 'have you come to confess?'
'Not this time. I have come to ask if I may catch some of your trout—if I can.'
'Not this time! If you wait for another the score will be heavier.'
'May I have your trout?'
'Really, if they give their consent I will. Good morning, Mr.
Rollo!—will you sit down and let me give you some coffee?'
'As I came for that too, I will, thank you. Will you lend me
Vixen to-day?'