"Maggie's shock-proof. I brought a few odd bones and things with me, by way of a holiday task. I'm getting near my final, you know. She'll just think this is another of them. Ring the bell, old man, would you? We'll see what the trout's like."
The door opened to admit the housekeeper, with a dish of grilled trout and a plate of fried scones.
"These look good, Maggie," said Wimsey, drawing his chair up and sniffing appreciatively.
"Aye, sir, they're gude, but they're awfu' wee fish."
"Don't grumble at them," said Macpherson. "They're the sole result of a day's purgatory up on Loch Whyneon. What with the sun fit to roast you and an east wind, I'm pretty well flayed alive. I very nearly didn't shave at all this morning." He passed a reminiscent hand over his red and excoriated face. "Ugh! It's a stiff pull up that hill, and the boat was going wallop, wallop all the time, like being in the Bay of Biscay."
"Damnable, I should think. But there's a change coming. The glass is going back. We'll be having some rain before we're many days older."
"Time, too," said Macpherson. "The burns are nearly dry, and there's not much water in the Fleet." He glanced out of the window to where the little river ran tinkling and skinkling over the stones at the bottom of the garden. "If only we get a few days' rain now, there'll be some grand fishing."
"It would come just as I've got to go, naturally," remarked Wimsey.
"Yes; can't you stay a bit longer? I want to have a try for some sea-trout."
"Sorry, old man, can't be done. I must be in Town on Wednesday. Never mind. I've had a fine time in the fresh air and got in some good rounds of golf."