Sam turned a glance of inquiry at Rosalind. She shook her head. The launch held its pace.
Another half-hour passed with scarce a word spoken aboard. Rosalind was bored to desperation. Her experiment in alchemy was the flattest kind of failure. She turned upon young Jones with sudden and undeserved severity.
"I should think it would be exceedingly tiresome to catch nothing," she said.
"It is," he assented hastily.
"Then why do you fish?"
"Why—why, I thought it was a fishing-party!"
"Without fish?"
"I've had half a dozen strikes."
She sighed and flashed a savage look at the boatman. He grinned.
"Shall we turn back?" she asked Morton, who was stroking his mustache in a preoccupied manner.