"Pony-carriage, me no pony-carriages," exclaimed de Cazalet. "Ours is to be a walking picnic and nothing else. If you like to meet us as we come home you can do so--but none but pedestrians shall drink our champagne or eat our salad--that salad which I shall have the honour to make for you with my own hands, Mrs. Tregonell." Jessie Bridgeman looked at Christabel to see if any painful memory--any thought of that other picnic at Tintagel when Angus Hamleigh was still a stranger, and the world seemed made for gladness and laughter, would disturb her smiling serenity. But there was no trace of mournful recollection in that bright beaming face which was turned in all graciousness towards the Baron, who sat caressing Leo's curls, while the boy wriggled his plump shoulders half out of his black velvet frock in palpable disgust at the caress. "Oh! it will be too lovely--too utterly ouftish," exclaimed Dopsy, who had lately acquired this last flower of speech--a word which might be made to mean almost anything, from the motive power which impels a billiard cue to the money that pays the player's losses at pool--a word which is a substantive or adjective according to the speaker's pleasure. "I suppose we shall be allowed to join you," said Mopsy, "we are splendid walkers." "Of course--entry open to all weights and ages, with Mrs. Tregonell's permission." "Let it be your picnic, Baron, since it is your idea," said Christabel; "my housekeeper shall take your orders about the luncheon, and we will all consider ourselves your guests." "I shall expire if I am left out in the cold," said Mrs. Torrington. "You really must allow age the privilege of a pony-carriage. That delightful cob of Mrs. Tregonell's understands me perfectly." "Well, on second thoughts, you shall have the carriage," said de Cazalet, graciously. "The provisions can't walk. It shall be your privilege to bring them. We will have no servants. Mr. Faddie, Mr. FitzJesse, and I will do all the fetching and carrying, cork-drawing and salad-making." CHAPTER IX. "THOU SHOULDST COME LIKE A FURY CROWNED WITH SNAKES." When the shooting party came home to afternoon tea, Dopsy and Mopsy were both full of the picnic. The sun was sinking in lurid splendour; there was every chance of a fine day to-morrow. De Cazalet had interviewed the housekeeper, and ordered luncheon. Mopsy went about among the men like a recruiting sergeant, telling them of the picnic, and begging them to join in that festivity.