"Bravo! Charming!" exclaimed Lord Canning, clapping his hands. "You are most interesting."
"As a study—or—or—a woman."
"Both," said Lord Canning. "When I cease to study your imperfections, I commence to love them." He bent over her, looking into her eyes. Glen struck a discord on the mandolin.
"I suggest that we start," interrupted Mrs. Bunker.
Lord Canning stood seriously gazing into the fire in the hall, while the ladies donned their wraps. His face brightened when he saw Indiana on the little balcony behind the Persian rug. She had put on a long white circular. The hood, edged with swansdown, made a pretty frame for her little flushed face. Her eyes, with their dilating pupils, looked dark under the yellow hair.
"Come down, little snow maiden! Or, are you afraid you will melt away in the heat of the fire?"
He met her at the foot of the stairs, and took her hand in a tender pressure. Mrs. Bunker coughed slightly behind them, and Indiana ran quickly out on the balcony, leaving Lord Canning under the amused fire of Mrs. Bunker's bright eyes. She shook her finger at him, and would have followed Indiana, but Lord Canning did not wish to be taken so lightly.
"Mrs. Bunker," he said in a low, intense voice, grasping the balustrade, "one moment, if you please. It may not be considered anything in America when a man of my age is seen holding the hand of such a very young girl, but, I am not a believer in light sentiment—flirting, perhaps, would be the term. I love your granddaughter!"
"It's easy enough to see that," laughed Mrs. Bunker. It was always amusing to her when people took themselves so seriously. "You have my good wishes. I have always thought very highly of you."
She held out her hand, which he pressed gratefully in his. "Thank you, Mrs. Bunker. Have you any idea if—if she cares for me?"