"Not yet; I haven't dared to tell him," Hubert said.
"But you think he'll object?"
"Sure to."
"Why. Doesn't he approve of Miss Martin for some reason?" Arthur asked. He remembered her now—a jolly, brown-eyed, brown-haired girl of twenty or so, who had chaffed him for his devotion to golf. "You're all so dreadfully serious over it," she had said, or words to that effect. Odd that she should fall in love with the melancholy Hubert!
"He has never seen her—or heard of her probably," was Hubert's answer.
"But, good Lord, why are you so sure that he'll object then," Arthur said.
"Well, the truth is that we aren't too keen on staying here—afterwards—after we're married, I mean," Hubert admitted.
"And you don't think the old man could do without you?"
"Oh! it isn't that. I don't do anything, really," Hubert said. "Rankin runs the place. I'm only a figurehead."