“I am not trifling with you. I told you the truth. I don’t know.”
“Ah, that’s not catching salmon,” came sharply from behind them. “Claude, dear, don’t listen to him. He’s a wicked fortune-hunter.”
Chris started away from Claude as if some one had struck him a violent blow.
“Mary!” cried Claude.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. What did I say?”
Whizz!
“Mr Lisle! Help!” cried Claude, for the line had suddenly tightened, the top of the rod bent over in a curve, and the winch sang out as it rapidly revolved.
“Take the rod, please, Mr Lisle,” continued Claude, in a voice full of emotion; and, as he took it without a word, she saw that he was deadly pale, and that his white teeth were pressing hard upon his nether lip.
He played the fish mechanically, and with Claude steadily looking on, and feeling as if she would like to run home to shut herself in her own room and throw herself upon her knees and sob. But the face before her held her as by a chain, and she turned with a bitter look of reproach upon her cousin, as she saw the way in which Chris was stung.
“Don’t look at me like that, dear,” cried Mary, “the words slipped out. I did not mean them, indeed. It’s a big fish, isn’t it, Mr Lisle? Shall I gaff it for you?”