“Ah, you young men of the present day are so superior. It’s a monstrous thing that when a girl’s pretty feet itch for a varnished floor she should be forced to throw herself into the arms of an old fogey like myself.”
“It didn’t look as if Miss Durant needed much compulsion,” returned Lionel, dryly.
The Canon laughed boisterously.
“Have you declared yourself yet? She’s a very nice girl indeed, and you have my paternal blessing. I think we shall get on capitally together.”
“No; I haven’t said anything.”
“Well, my boy, why don’t you? It’s your duty to marry and it’s your duty to marry money. You must have a son and you must have something to keep him on. I think you’ll have to hunt a long time before you find any one so likely to provide all that’s necessary as Gwendolen Durant.”
“I like her very much,” allowed Lionel, somewhat uncertainly.
“Then why don’t you propose to-night? There’s nothing like a dance for that sort of thing. The music and the flowers and the gaiety—it all attunes the mind to amorous affairs.”
“That’s all very well, but she makes one rather nervous,” laughed Lionel.
“Fiddlesticks! Take her into the conservatory and play with her fan. That will lead you to take her hand. Then put your arm boldly round her waist; and the rest will follow of itself, or you’re no son of mine.”