"Stop that," whispered Indiana.
Mrs. Stillwater looked at her with a piteous expression, then sank down into a chair near the tea-table.
"This cup is for Lady Canning. No, Jennings, I'll take it to her myself."
Mrs. Stillwater watched her jealously as she waited on Lady Canning, and drank her tea with a vague feeling of disappointment in her reunion with Indiana. Mr. Stillwater inspected, with interest, various objects in the room, walking about with Thurston, their cups in their hands.
"There's a solidity about all this, which speaks for itself," said Mr. Stillwater. "It's no use talking, a man can't buy it." Thurston called his attention to a tapestry. "Yes, I know—Gobelin—very fine. I admire it right here, because it belongs here. But when our millionaires import other people's old furniture, even that of princes and cardinals, and put it in their brand-new American homes—it seems to me snobbery. The only value of an antique is when it belongs to a nation."
"I agree with you, Mr. Stillwater."
After some further conversation, Lady Canning said, gently, to Indiana, "My darling, will you excuse me now? I know you have much to say to your people." She shook hands graciously with them all. "Now, when will you come and dine with us?"
"Oh, we'll run in any old time," said Mrs. Bunker.
"We won't wait for invitations," added Mr. Stillwater. "We'll run over to breakfast or supper, just as the spirit moves us. We'll take possession while we're here."
"You will always be very welcome whenever you care to come," answered Lady Canning. "But we are not used to being taken unawares." She bowed with a set smile, as she left the room leaning on her brother's arm. But her presence was still felt by a perceptible chill in the atmosphere. Thurston, however, soon dispelled the restraint. He took them through the house, entertaining them with histories of different family relics, to which they listened with interest. Then they adjourned to his own particular den, where all the trophies of his travels were collected. Finally Indiana carried them off to her apartments, leaving Thurston in his den. When they were all comfortably installed in the boudoir, Indiana, leaning on her mother's breast, looked thoughtfully up in her face and then at the others. She could scarcely realize that they were substantial creations.