“Muffin, my dear fellow, Muffin” said his friend, in a tone of pained expostulation.
“Smart as paint,” said George, with a perilous approach to enthusiasm. “Makes her own flies and tackle, and can find as much bait in a quarter of an hour as will last for a week.”
“The merits of a good upbringing,” said Cheriton, rising from the slab of slate, “are not easily to be overestimated.”
Mrs. Lascelles also rose. All three strolled by the margin of the lake until they came upon the easel. Jim Lascelles was assiduously utilizing what remained of the daylight. There was still a glow about Gwydr’s left shoulder which was reflected upon the canvas. Muffin was seated on the pebbles, complacently putting on her shoes and stockings.
“Did you catch anything?” she demanded of the bearer of the rod and tackle.
“Sixteen,” said that sportsman, robustly.
“How splendid! Do let me see them.”
“You will have to wait until dinner, my dear,” said George. “They have gone to the pot.”
“Good progress, Lascelles?” inquired Cheriton, conducting an amused examination of Jim’s labors.
“I think I have done a good day’s work,” said Jim, packing up his tools.