"I wish I were a pollywog!" said Lord Canning.
This remark, coming from such a source, appealed to Indiana's sense of humor. She laughed until the tears rose to her eyes, while Lord Canning surveyed her with a deeply injured expression.
"It's most unkind of you to ridicule my ambitions in this way, Miss Stillwater."
"And such lofty ambitions, too."
"They were—once, but they have gradually diminished, until now I am quite satisfied to be a pollywog—but that one in your hand, you understand."
Indiana put it into the bottle, then leaned back on the soft ground clasping her hands behind her head.
"Tired—so soon? But you weary of most things like this, I have perceived—a truly feminine trait." He lit a cigar.
It was one of those fair, bright autumn days, when one could imagine it was June instead of September, were it not for the glorious splashes of color that enlivened the lake.
"Do you notice," said Indiana, gazing upward through the pines, "how near the sky seems to us here?"
"Yes," said Lord Canning, "heaven seems very near to me here"—he bent down, looking into her eyes—"very near, and sometimes very far—"