The most of his fishing had been done from a flat boat with a bamboo pole. Still he did not intend to admit to her such unsportsmanlike conduct. He knew nothing of fly fishing but he was determined to observe her closely and follow her example in every detail. When in college he had gone South with some friends for a week of bird shooting and had acquitted himself creditably by this method, though he had never before held a gun. In the same way, by his quickness and determination, he had ridden fifteen miles the first time he was ever upon a horse.
They left the house without seeing Aunt Philomela, though as he went down the path Barnes felt her eyes burning into his back. They crossed the road and pushed through the fields to the meadow-brook. They followed the banks for the matter of half a mile before she finally stopped to put together the poles.
She glanced at the sky, at the water, and then ran her pink finger tips over the gorgeous medley of brightly-feathered flies. She selected one for herself and handed the book to him.
“I’m trying a Silver Moth,” she announced.
It took him longer to decide because there were no more Silver Moths, but he finally drew out a gay scarlet fly with a body of mottled brown. Its coloring was as daintily bright as that of a butterfly. He went upon the simple theory that if he were a trout it would be with some such fastidious temptation that he himself would coquet. He adjusted it slowly with one eye upon her.
She poised herself upon the edge of the bank with her figure erect, alert, every fine line pulsating with life. With a full, free arm movement she swung the lithe pole back, then forward. The Silver Moth circled her head, paused a moment ten yards behind her, and then following the swishing line darted straight out over the stream, swift as a homing bee and kissed the water with scarcely a ripple. She drew it back and this time sent it even farther. Then once again, until the long line reached almost to the opposite bank.
What a picture that would make! Diana with her hounds was not half the subject. What gentle strength there was in every movement—what rhythm, and above the beautiful body, what a head. The wonder of those features was that they lived up to any part you wished to assume for them. A short while ago they had consistently upheld the traditions of Venice; still later they had blended into dusk dreams; now they expressed the elemental beauty of the Indian.
As the Silver Moth rippled against the current, she turned to see what he was about. She saw and turned back again to the Silver Moth.
“What fly are you using?” she inquired.
“A butterfly,” he answered with an intake of breath.