"Good morning, sir," said old Aaron, with stiff politeness.
The visitor turned and saluted his host.
"Will you not be seated?" said Mr. Rockharrt, waving his hand toward sofa and chairs.
The visitor bowed and sat down. The host took another chair and waited. There was silence for a short time. The old man seemed expectant, the young man embarrassed. At length, when the latter opened his mouth and spoke, no pearls and diamonds of wisdom and goodness dropped from his lips; he said:
"It is a fine day."
"Yes, yes," admitted the Iron King, taking his hands from his knees, and drawing himself up with the sigh of a man badly bored—"for London. We wouldn't call this a fine day in America. But I have heard it said that it is always a fine day in England when it don't pour."
"Yes," admitted the visitor; and then he driveled into the most inane talk about climates, for you see this was the first time the poor young fellow had ever ventured to
"Beard the lion in his den,"
so to speak, by asking: a stern old gentleman for a daughter's hand, and this Iron King was a very formidable-looking beast indeed.
At length, Mr. Rockharrt, feeling sure that his visitor had come upon business—though he did not know of what sort—said: