Trist approached Mrs. Wylie with slow and almost timid steps, yet there was nothing apologetic in his demeanour, for he was perfectly self-possessed, and even reposeful, with that quiet assurance which only comes with innate good-breeding.
In his two hands he carried a fine stout salmon with a sharp snout. Its dark lips curled upwards with an evil twist, and even in death its eyes were full of fight.
The lady dropped her book upon her lap, and looked up with a smile. In her eyes there was a kindly and yet scrutinizing look which was almost motherly in its discernment. This young man was evidently more to her than the rest of his kind. She knew his impassive face so well that she could read where others saw an unwritten page.
'Ah,' she said, with some interest (for she was a sportsman's wife), 'that is a good fish, Theo!'
'Yes,' he acquiesced in a soft and rather monotonous voice, harmonizing with his eyes. 'He is a fine fellow. We had a desperate fight!'
As if to prove the severity of the struggle, he looked down at his knees, which were muddy, and then held out his right hand, which was streaked with blood.
'Ah, how nasty!' exclaimed Mrs. Wylie pleasantly. 'Is it yours or his?'
'Mine, I think. Yes, it must be mine.'
Brenda had approached slowly, and was standing close to him. She stooped a little to examine the fish, which he held towards her with his left hand, and even deigned to poke it critically on the shoulder with her straight white finger.
'Are you hurt?' she inquired casually, without looking up.