It was quite obvious to Barnes that the stream took no interest whatever in the affairs of the brick house from which it derived its name. Its business was solely with water-cress, white pebbles, and golden sand. It was whimpling on its placid course just as unconcernedly as it did three weeks before. If Barnes expected any encouragement here for the deep matters he had in hand he was disappointed.
Eleanor proceeded at once to put her pole together and Barnes reluctantly followed. She paused as he handed her the fly-book.
“You had such good luck before—” she suggested.
“That,” he answered, “was an especial occasion.”
She selected a Silver Moth. As she turned away from him he replaced the fly-book in the basket, picked out a tiny bit of lead, and, fastening it to the end of his line, whipped it at once into the water. She glanced over her shoulder, surprised at the speed he had made, but she was too late to detect his choice. In another second her own fly was in the water and Barnes breathed more easily. Then he turned his attention to a more important matter.
“Eleanor,” he began.
She looked up quickly. The name came to her fraught with new significance.
“Yes?” she answered.
“I think I have outlived my usefulness as a prodigal.”
“The affair has solved itself in so simple a fashion that I had almost forgotten that part of it,” she answered.