“Right you are. I have. I’m going to try for a trout or two, Silly. Feel like coming along?”
“I sha’n’t if you call me that,” answered the girl, with a shade of her sister’s expression coming over her face; “that,” however, not being an epithet but a teasing abbreviation of her own name—Sylvia.
“All right. I withdraw the Silly.”
“Then I’ll go. But isn’t Cynthia going?”
“She says I’m too ugly just at present,” returned Raynier, tranquilly. “And I believe I am.”
“Yes. You’re rather a sight,” with a deliberate glance at his damaged figurehead. “Never mind. There’s no one to see us here. Where are we going?”
“How about the hole below Blackadder Bridge?”
“That’s it,” returned Sylvia. “There was a regular ‘boil’ on there the day before you came, but that was in the evening. I took out seven trout in twenty-five minutes. Then the ‘boil’ stopped and you couldn’t move a fish. But we’d better start soon.”
“All right. I’ll go and get my rod.”
The Vicar went out on to the lawn to see them off, and smoke his after-breakfast pipe.