"I see—just listen. It is shallow again—what a beautiful white, sandy bed—how restlessly the minnows dart—here and there—backwards and forwards. They symbolize the activity of your nation, Miss Stillwater. Oh, what a cunning little stair-case cut in the rock—it looks so inviting—I should like to get off and climb it, and sit up there in the trees—may I?"
"No," said Indiana, "there are so many other pretty places, I want to show you."
"But I have a fancy for this—obduracy itself. Well, will you promise to take me here again another day—do promise!"
"I promise," said Indiana.
The sun was long past its meridian, when they reached home. Mrs. Bunker, her daughter and Lord Stafford, were watching from the boat-house balcony. Lord Canning was rowing, without a coat, bareheaded. Indiana, comfortably ensconced in pillows opposite, was employed in spattering water over his face, regardless of his laughing remonstrances. Their voices—Indiana's high-pitched but sweet, mingled with Lord Canning's deep tones—were carried by the clear air over the water.
"Allow me to thank you for a delightful morning, Miss Stillwater," said Lord Canning, ceremoniously, as he helped her from the boat. He stood looking looking back on the lake.
"Are you coming, Lord Canning?" asked Indiana, her foot on the little rustic staircase leading from the dock up into the boat-house.
"One moment, if you please," said Lord Canning, still looking at the lake. "I want to fix firmly in my mind all the details of this delightful morning."
"How slow these Englishmen are," thought Indiana, "and yet—"
"You naughty child," said Mrs. Bunker, beaming on Indiana. "Do you know it's almost two o'clock! Lord Stafford is starving."