"Sport! aye, troth! Five fish in the day. That's a river indeed at
Bettws! Not a pawky wee burn, like this Aberglaslyn thing."
"Only five fish?" said Valencia, in a frightened tone.
"Fish, my leddy, not trouts, I said. I thought ye knew better than that by this time."
"Oh, salmon?" cried Valencia, relieved. "Delightful. I'll go to him this moment."
And upstairs to Scoutbush's room she went.
He was sitting in dressing-gown and slippers, sipping his claret, and fondling his fly-book (the only one he ever studied con amore), with a most complacent face. She came in and stood demurely before him, holding her broad hat in both hands before her knees, like a school-girl, her face half-hidden in the black curls. Scoutbush looked up and smiled affectionately, as he caught the light of her eyes and the arch play of her lips.
"Ah! there you are, at a pretty time of night! How beautiful you look,
Val! I wish my wife may be half as pretty!"
Valencia made him a prim curtsey.
"I am delighted to hear of my lord's good sport. He will choose to be in a good humour, I suppose."
"Good humour? ça va sans dire! Three stone of fish in three hours!"