"Quite so," said Jack, cheerily; "don't take the whip, you are only
winding it round your own neck. I'll give Dahlia a lick in the face if
she turns out of the rank."

They were winding down a hill, and took a road at the bottom at right
angles to it. Colonel Rolleston, in the first sleigh, was blandly
pointing out to Lady Hampshire the _coup d'oeil_ of the whole procession
as they described two sides of a triangle.

"Do you like my plumes?" asked Jack, relaxing his surveillance on Dahlia,
as her left ear, which had been laid back in a suggestive manner, resumed
its accustomed position.

"Like them," echoed Bluebell; "it's just like a hearse, bar the colour,
which is frightful. I wouldn't have come if I had known I was to be
driven in such a fire-engine."

"There now," rather crest-fallen. "I chose them because you said you were
_fond_ of scarlet, otherwise I should have preferred blue, except that I
might have been taken for one of the 10th, who mount their regimental
colours on everything."

"I like the 10th," said Bluebell, perversely; "they are all good-looking
except the Adjutant, who got his nose sliced off by a Sikh, and
the.... goodness what's that?" as a fearful shout, followed by a
sudden checking of horses, brought the whole line to a stand-still.

"What's the matter?" was passed from one sleigh to another up to the
front: the return message, shouted and taken up as each one interpreted
it, became soon about as intelligible as it does in the game of Russian