P.S. ’Tis in a way. A matter of sentiment, I suppose.
P.H. Just what I said to the Missus. However, being a bit of a critic I went to examine that picture for myself. And would you believe it, Stanning—I’m not saying this to flatter you because the chap who done it has the same name as yours—when I see that picture it fair knocked me endways. You see I know every yard of Corfield Weir; in my time I’ve had more than one good fish out of it; and as soon as I set eyes on it, I said to myself, “Stanning R.A.’s a fisherman. He’s chosen one of them gray days that’s good for barbel.” I give you my word, he’d got just the proper light coming out of the valley and stealing along the Sharrow. Only an artist and a fisherman could have done it.
P.S. Did you ever get bream there?
P.H. I should say so. And I’ve had trout in my time.
P.S. Trout?
P.H. I’m talking of twenty years back. But to resume. I see at a glance why the City Authorities had paid a thousand guineas for that picture. It was not because Stanning, R.A., was a local man; it was pure merit and I felt very glad it was so.
P.S. Glad you thought so.
P.H. You know, of course, that Stanning, R.A., is Blackhampton born?
P.S. So I’ve heard.
P.H. Born in that old house with the high-walled garden along Blue Bell Hill that was pulled down to widen the road.