The following day began as the last had done; Lord Embleton and Miss Willoughby retiring to the muniment-room, the lovers vanishing among the walks. Scremerston later took Logan to consult
Fenwick, who visibly brightened at the idea of night-fishing.
‘You must take one of those long landing-nets, Logan,’ said Scremerston. ‘They are about as tall as yourself, and as stout as lance-shafts. They are for steadying you when you wade, and feeling the depth of the water in front of you.’
Scremerston seemed very pensive. The day was hot; they wandered to the smoking-room. Scremerston took up a novel, which he did not read; Logan began a letter to Merton—a gloomy epistle.
‘I say, Logan,’ suddenly said Scremerston, ‘if your letter is not very important, I wish you would listen to me for a moment.’
Logan turned round. ‘Fire away,’ he said; ‘my letter can wait.’
Scremerston was in an attitude of deep dejection. Logan lit a cigarette and waited.
‘Logan, I am the most miserable beggar alive.’
‘What is the matter? You seem rather in-and-out in your moods,’ said Logan.
‘Why, you know, I am in a regular tight place. I don’t know how to put it. You see, I can’t help thinking that—that—I have rather committed myself—it seems a beastly conceited thing to say—that there’s a girl who likes me, I’m afraid.’