“Hullo, sister. Hang it all, what's he like? He's like an ass, that's all. I've never seen him, but if I'm ever called upon to—but you don't care to listen to details. You remember the big log that lies out in the river up at the bend? Well, it marks the property line. One half of its stump belongs to the Shaw man, the other half to m—to us, Evelyn. He shan't fish below that log—no, sir!” His lordship glared fiercely through his monocle in the direction of the far-away log, his watery blue eyes blinking as malevolently as possible, his long, aristocratic nose wrinkling at its base in fine disdain. His five feet four of stature quivered with illy-subdued emotion, but whether it was rage or the sudden recollection of the dog-trot through the woods, it is beyond me to suggest.
“But suppose our fish venture into his waters, Cecil; what then? Is n't that trespass?” demanded the Honourable Penelope Drake, youngest and most cherished sister of his lordship.
“Now, don't be silly, Pen,” cried her sister-in-law. “Of course we can't regulate the fish.”
“But I daresay his fish will come below the log, so what's the odds?” said his lord-ship quickly. “A trout 's a lawless brute at best.”
“Is he big?” asked the Honourable Penelope lazily.
“They vary, my dear girl.”
“I mean Mr. Shaw.”
“Oh, I thought you meant the—but I don't know. What difference does that make? Big or little, he has to stay off my grounds.” Was it a look of pride that his tall young wife bestowed upon him as he drew himself proudly erect or was it akin to pity? At any rate, her gay young American head was inches above his own when she arose and suggested that they go inside and prepare for the housing of the guests who were to come over from the evening train.
“The drag has gone over to the station, Cecil, and it should be here by seven o'clock.”
“Confound his impudence, I 'll show him,” grumbled his lordship as he followed her, stiff-legged, toward the door.