“I wanted to see you happy, my darling coz,” was whispered back. “I saw him coming here with his fishing-rod, and—”
“But, Mary, what will Chris Lisle think?”
“Think he’s in luck, and bless poor little humpy, fairy godmother me, and—no, no, too late to retreat. We have been seen.”
For as they had passed out into an open part of the glen where the river widened into a pool, there, only a short distance from them, and with his bright, sun-browned face directed toward the river, was a sturdy, well-built young fellow, dressed in a dark tweed Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, busily throwing a fly across the pool till, as if intuitively becoming aware that he was watched, he looked sharply round.
The next moment there was again the peculiar buzzing sound made by a rapidly-wound-up multiplying winch, the rod was thrown over the young man’s shoulder, and he turned to meet them.
“Ah, little Mary!” he cried merrily; and then, with a voice full of tender reverence, he turned, straw hat in hand, to Claude.
“I did not expect to see you here.”
“And I am as much surprised,” she said hastily. “Mary and I were having a walk.”
“And now we are here, Mr Lisle, you may as well show us all your salmon,” said Mary seriously.
“My salmon! I haven’t had a rise.”