“Really!” exclaimed Monsignor. “Is she generally successful, Mr Haldane?”
“She’s a very fair hand at throwing a fly. Really, though, Monsignor, I’m afraid you’ll think me a doting sort of a driveller on that subject. The fact is, we all spoil her shockingly among us. Wagram doesn’t come far behind me in that line, and the Squire too.”
“I’m not surprised,” answered the prelate. “I think she is without exception the dearest child I have ever seen, and the proof of it is she remains unspoiled through it all. Why, there she is.”
On the lawn she was standing, just handing her trout rod to the old head keeper, who could not refrain from turning his head with a smile of admiration as he walked away. Then she danced up to the window, the pink flush of health in her cheeks, the blue eyes alight with a mischievous challenge.
“Well? What luck, Sunbeam?” said Haldane, who was already at the open window.
“Ah—ah! I wasn’t to get any, was I?” she cried ostentatiously, holding down the lid of her creel. “Well—look.”
She exhibited a brace of beautiful trout, each something over a pound, but in first-rate condition.
“Did you get them yourself?” said Wagram, who liked to tease her occasionally.
“Mr Wagram! I shall not speak to you for the whole of to-day—no—half of it.”
“I thought possibly Hood might have captured them,” he explained. “Did you say one or both?”