“I am rather ashamed of it, but the next moment I quite forgot that there was any danger,” she said. “You see I was so intent upon the fish.”
“Then,” said Weston, very quietly, “I don’t think you could blame me.”
He stooped, and, picking up the rod, set about taking it to pieces with a curious deliberation. Then he glanced at the girl.
“I can only offer you my thanks, Miss Stirling, but they’re very sincere,” he said. “Don’t you think it would be better if we went back to camp?”
Ida rose and returned with him through the scented bush, but neither said anything further, for the same restraint was upon both of them.
ON THE LAKE
It was rather late that night when Weston and Grenfell sat smoking beside the dying fire. The breeze that came off the lake was colder than usual, and the rest of the party had retired indoors, but one window of the little wooden house stood open, and Miss Kinnaird’s voice drifted softly out of it. She was evidently singing a selection from an opera. Grenfell, who lay with his back against one of the hearth-logs, appeared to be listening critically.
“It’s pretty and nothing more,” he said. “That girl’s too diffuse—she spreads herself. She might have painted if she’d been poor; though that’s not a sure thing either.”
“Why isn’t it?” asked Weston, who had, however, no great interest in the matter.