“That’s one of the things I have been thinking of,” said Stafford.  “What lovely hair you have, Ida!  It is not often that dark hair is so soft, is it?”

He bent down and drew a look, which his caresses had released, across her lips, and kissed her through it.

“You are lords of the soil, people of importance and rank here, while we are—­well, just ordinary folk.  I can quite understand your father objecting.  Dearest, you are worthy of a duke, a prince—­”

She put her hand up to his lips to silence the lover’s extravagant flattery.

“It is not that—­the difference—­which is all to your advantage,” she said.  “My father may think of it,” she went on with innocent candour.  “But it would be the same if you were of the highest rank.  He does not want me to leave him.”

“And if he were less anxious to keep you he would not give you to me, who am, in his opinion, and rightly, so much your inferior,” said Stafford.  “But I ought to go to him, dearest.  I ought to go to-morrow.”

She trembled a little as she nestled against him.  “And—­and—­your father, Sir Stephen Orme?” she said.  “What will he say?”

Stafford laughed slowly and confidently.

“Oh, my father?  He will be delighted.  He’s the best of fathers, a perfect model for parents.  Ever since I can remember he has been good to me, a precious sight better, more liberal and generous, than I deserved; but lately, since I’ve known him—­Ah, well, I can only say, dearest, that he will be delighted to hear that I have chosen a wife; and when he sees you—­”

He stopped and held her at arm’s length for a moment and looked down into the lovely face upturned to his with its sweet, girlish gravity.

—­“Why, he will fall in love with you right out of hand!  I think you will like my father, Ida.  He—­well, he’s a taking sort of fellow; everybody likes him who knows him—­really knows him—­and speaks well of him.  Yes, I’m proud of him, and I feel as safe as if he were here to say, in his hearty, earnest way:  ’I wish you good luck, Stafford!  And may God bless you, my dear!’”

He flushed and laughed as if a little ashamed of his emotional way of putting it.

“He’s full of—­of the milk of human kindness, is my father,” he said, with a touch of simplicity which was one of the thousand and fifteen reasons why Ida loved him.

She gazed up at him thoughtfully and sighed.

“I hope he will like me,” she said, all the pride which usually characterized her melted by her love.  “I am sure that I shall like him—­for loving you.”

“You will see,” said Stafford, confidently.  “He will be as proud as a duke about you.  You won’t mind if he shows it a little plainly and makes a little fuss, Ida?  He’s—­well, he’s used to making the most of a good thing when he has it—­it’s the life he has led which has rather got him into the way of blowing a trumpet, you know—­and he’ll want a whole orchestra to announce you.  But about your father, dearest?  Shall I come to-morrow and ask for his consent?”