She had rejoiced in it, moreover, because she had been aware that, no matter how dangerous she might prove to be with others, with herself she had not been dangerous. The kind of romance, the kind of sentiment, in which she indulged she had come to regard as highly specialized art in which she was Past Grand Mistress. She loved them for their own sake. She was a fisher of men, but fished only for the love of fishing, and it was her pleasure while her victims still writhed to unhook them as tenderly as might be and let them flap ungracefully back into their own element. Her fly-book was a curiosity and of infinite variety. Izaak Walton advances the suggestion that trout bite "not for hunger, but wantonness." Rita Cheyne was of the opinion that men bit for a similar reason; and so she whipped the social streams ruthlessly for the mere joy of the game, matching her skill to the indifference of her quarry, her artistry to their vehemence.
And now she suddenly discovered that she must throw her fly-book away—she had tried them all—the "silver-doctor," the "white moth," the "brown hackle"—and all to no purpose. Her fish had risen, but he would not bite. She was fishing in unfamiliar waters, deeper waters, where there were hidden currents she could not understand. The tackle she had used when fishing for others would not serve for Jeff Wray.
It provoked her that her subtlety was of no avail, for she had the true fisher's contempt for heavy tackle. And yet she realized that it was only heavy tackle which would land him. He was the only man who had really interested her in years, and his conquest was a matter of pride with her. She had other reasons, too. His wife was beautiful. Rita Cheyne was merely artistic. Victory meant that Beauty was only an incident—that Art, after all, was immortal. The theory of a whole lifetime needed vindication.
When Wray entered she was deep in "You Never Can Tell," but looked up at her visitor slowly and extended a languid hand.
"Aren't you early?" she asked, slipping a marker in the pages of her book and closing it slowly.
"No, I don't think so. I thought I was late. I was detained."
She held up a hand in protest.
"I was really hoping you might not come. I've been really so amused—and when one is really amused nowadays one should expect nothing more of the gods."
Wray got up hurriedly. "I won't 'butt in' then. I don't want to disturb——"
"Oh, sit down—do. You make me nervous. Have a cigarette—I'll take one, too. Now tell me what on earth is the matter with you."