Trout Fishing.
There was a short, somewhat embarrassed silence while Margot kept her eyes fixed on the scene of the late meal, the two smouldering fires, the piled-up hampers and baskets, and the Editor drummed with his fingers, and chewed his moustache.
“Er—” he began haltingly at last. “How do you think it has gone?”
“You mean the—”
“Picnic! Yes. My first entertainment. I feel responsible. Think they enjoyed it at all?”
“I’m sure of it. Immensely! They thawed wonderfully. Think of the duet! To hear Mr Macalister singing was a revelation. It has been a delightful change from the ordinary routine. And the trout! The trout was a huge success. How amiable of it to let itself be caught so conveniently!”
The Editor smiled, with the conscious pride of the experienced fisherman.
“There was not much ‘let’ about it. He led me a pretty dance before he gave up the struggle, but I was on my mettle, and bound to win. Do you know anything about fishing, Miss Vane?”
“I?” Margot laughed happily. “Just as much as I have gleaned from watching little boys fish for minnows in Regent’s Park! I don’t think I have ever particularly wanted to know more. It seems so dull to stand waiting for hours for what may never come, not daring to speak, in case you may scare it away! What do you think about all the time?”
He turned and looked at her at that, his lips twitching with amusement. Seated on the ground as they were, the two faces were very near together, and each regarded the other with the feeling of advancing a step further in the history of their acquaintance.