"Naturally," agreed Lord Canning. "Suppose we walk down to the lake," he added, with an Englishman's dislike of being overheard.
"Marrying young runs in our family," remarked Stillwater, as they descended the steps. "My wife was sixteen, when she married, and grandma only fifteen. There's always somebody turning up, wanting to marry Indiana. But she's never been serious about anyone, I'm happy to say."
Lord Canning looked meditatively upon the ground, pushing, with the tip of his shoe, the thick layer of pine needles. Finally he looked up, smiling. "If I could make her serious about me, would you object?"
"Why should I?" asked Stillwater, dryly. "I don't have to live with you."
"Oh, no," replied Lord Canning, accepting the remark in a serious sense, "there's no possible necessity for it." Stillwater gave an involuntary chuckle, and, seating himself on a rustic bench built between two trees, offered his would-be son-in-law a cigar. "I ought to feel very much honored, Lord Canning, but I haven't reached that stage of imperialism, although my mother-in-law is a fiend on that subject. American women generally are. They're natural imperialists. They head a despotic monarchy at home." He laughed heartily, while his guest surveyed him gravely, lighting his cigar.
"Mr. Stillwater, I hope you do not consider my title against me?"
"Oh, not at all, not at all," smoking, in a very comfortable position. "It might help you with Indiana. It would be a new fad for her. You know we all have our fads. It's a good thing for us, too. Personally I like you. I like you very much. But—er—" he hesitated, studying the lake. There was plainly something on his mind which he considered should be said. Finally he rose, placing his hand kindly on Lord Canning's shoulder. "I want to give you a quiet piece of advice, and if you don't take it I want you to consider it as never having been said—will you?"
"I will, sir," said Lord Canning, gravely.
"Don't marry my daughter!"
"Why?"