For an instant Sir S. looked as haughty as a dethroned king. Then the funny side struck him, and he laughed. "You flatter us," he said; "but I'm sorry we can't do what you ask. Perhaps your people will turn up, after all."
The poor man looked bitterly disappointed, almost as if he would cry, and so did the other, who had been listening with enormously large red ears like handles on a terra-cotta urn. Both men were wet with the rain, which had fallen sharply and only just stopped as if to welcome us over the border. The one who had spoken turned sadly away, without venturing to urge his point (Sir S. isn't the sort of person strange men would take liberties with), but in retreating he threw one agonized look at me. I couldn't resist it.
"Oh, do let's stand for the bride and groom!" I pleaded. And foreseeing a battle the photographer hastily retired into the background to let us fight it out. "It would be such fun. I should love it. You know, I've always vowed to be married at Gretna Green, if at all. And this would be next best to the real thing."
I gazed up at Sir S. as enticingly as I knew how, and there was a look in his eyes that frightened me a little. I was afraid I had made him angry; yet it wasn't a look of crossness. I could not tell what it meant, but his voice in answering sounded kind. As usual, when he has been particularly grave, he smiled that nice smile which begins in his eyes and suddenly lights up his face.
"You'd better wait for the 'real thing' and the real man," said he. "Be patient for a few years. You've plenty of time."
"I may never get another such good chance," I mourned. "You are unkind! It would amuse me so much, and it wouldn't hurt you."
"Do you think that's why I say no?" he asked. "You think I'm afraid?"
"Yes, I do," I insisted. "You're too proud to do what will make you look silly—because you're the great Somerled."
"By Jove!" he said, and his face flushed up. "If you say much more I will do it—and hang everything!"
"I do say much more!" I cried. "Much more—and hang everything."