After luncheon, at Fishpingle’s earnest request, the anglers changed beats. Lady Pomfret accompanied her son to the upper reaches. But he showed little keenness although more fly was on the water, and the prospects of good sport much better. The mother remarked this:
“Are you tired, my dear?”
His laugh allayed that anxiety.
“Tired? I’m consumed with curiosity—that’s all.”
“What is biting at you?”
“Fishpingle.”
“Oh!”
“Mother, read the riddle of Fishpingle to me.”
She shook her head. The riddle of her son challenged attention. How greatly he had changed, this boy who had been so absurdly boyish and cut to pattern, who had accepted everything and questioned nothing. Long after he had joined his regiment, she looked in vain for any shades of expression in him. If he liked a play or a book, it was “priceless” or “tophole.” If he disliked it, one word flew from his lips like a projectile—“Tosh!” She remembered taking him to a concert, where a famous virtuoso had entranced a large audience. Lionel announced presently that he was bored to tears. She had said gently, “Do you think, Lionel, that is your fault or the fault of Pachmann?” And he had stared at her, startled out of his complacency but utterly misapprehending the humour and purpose of her question.
She said tranquilly: