"Don't let her guide you, Sir Anthony. I'll tell you a story about her. She was always tantalising Mick St. Leger, an old pupil of papa's, who is in India now, with stories of a wonderful pike which inhabited one of the big holes in the Moyle. Well, poor Mick used to sit and fish for hours, now and then catching a little fish by accident, for his heart wasn't in it for thinking of Sylvia's big pike. And Sylvia used to sit by watching him, apparently full of sympathy. One day he was fishing the big hole as usual, when he gave a long whistle. 'What is it, Mick?' Sylvia cried, running to him. 'It feels like a twenty-pounder,' said poor Mick, very red in the face. 'Oh, Mick, do let me help!' cried Sylvia. And then, with an immense deal of carefulness, and poor Mick holding on like grim death, they reeled up an old tin can full of stones, in the handle of which Mick's line was caught."
"Mick would never have known," said Sylvia dispassionately, "if little Patsy Murray hadn't come running after me a week later, calling out, 'Where's that apple ye promised me for sinkin' me mother's ould can in the river?' Mick never believed in me as an honest angler afterwards."
"No wonder! But to think your father should have suggested you as my guide, Miss Sylvia!"
"Pam's just as bad, Sir Anthony. I generally do the things, but Pam encourages me."
Pamela again turned those eyes of heaven's own colour in mute reproach upon her sister.
"I'll have faith in you, Miss Pam," said Sir Anthony impulsively, "no matter what your sister says to the contrary."
And he meant his rash promise.
"The letter can wait till another time."—p. 109.