“Going out, auntie?”
“Yes, my dear, for a short drive down the village. The pony-carriage will be round in a few minutes. I was going to the vicarage, but my first call will be at the Smarts’. I should like you to go with me.”
“Go with you, auntie?” said the boy, in a hesitating voice.
“Yes, my dear. Do you not wish to go?”
“I did, auntie, but after what Mr Trimmer said about the trout rising, and the May-fly—you see, they only come once a year.”
“Oh, very well, my darling; I suppose I must not object to your liking to fish. Isaac Walton was quite a poet.”
“Regular, auntie; and the Prince says fishing begets a love of Nature.”
“Who does, my dear?”
“The Prince—the Principal, auntie. He’s a regular dab at throwing a fly.”
Lady Lisle winced again but screwed up a smile, and made no allusion to the dab, which seemed to strike her in the face like a cold frog—tree frog—and made her wince. “You will be back to lunch, my dear?”