"I don't despond—I leave that to—but comparisons are odious."
"Go on."
"To Miss Rose Danton. She is pining on the stem, at the near approach of matrimony, and growing as pale as spirit. What is the matter with her?"
"You ought to know best. You're a doctor."
"But love-sickness; I don't believe there is anything in the whole range of physic to cure that. What's this—a fishing-rod?"
"Yes," said Mr. Stanford, taking a more comfortable position on the grass. "I thought I would try my luck this fine afternoon, but somehow I don't seem to progress very fast."
"I should think not, indeed. Let me see what I can do."
Reginald watched him lazily, as he dropped the line into the placid water.
"What do you think about it yourself?" he asked, after a pause.
"About what?"