‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘I have caught the original trout. He had gone mad from old age and riotous living, and came to the fly when the sun was brightest and the winds were dead.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t use such beautiful language,’ she said. ‘How much does he weigh?’
‘About a ton. He has gone to be weighed now.’
‘And anything else?’
‘Not a fin. No more bites, as somebody said last night. I chattered with rage.’
‘You did; and what have you been thinking about?’ she asked.
‘Pan chiefly. No, to be honest, I think I have thought about the fish most. But Pan next!’
She turned rather slowly on her long wicker-couch, the tired aching body for the moment usurping the use of her eyes.
‘Ah, don’t let us talk,’ I said; ‘you are tired and suffering.’
At that she laughed.