“Yes, always! It’s only when you don’t care that you can afford to wait.”
“It sometimes saves time in the end to make haste slowly!”
“Oh, don’t confound me with proverbs!” cried Margot, turning a flushed, petulant face at him over her shoulder. “I know I am impetuous and imprudent, but—the horrid thing will twist up! Don’t you think I might have a demonstration this time? Let me watch, and pick up hints. I’m sure I should learn more quickly that way, and it would be less boring for you. Please!”
At that he took the rod, nothing loth, and Margot seated herself on the ground, a trifle short of breath after her exertions, and not at all sorry to have the chance of looking on while some one else did the work. She was intently conscious of her companion’s presence, but he seemed to forget all about her, as wading slightly forward into the stream he cast his fly in slow, unerring circuit. How big he looked, how strong and masterful; how graceful were the lines of his tall lean figure! From where she sat Margot could see the dark profile beneath the deerstalker cap, the long straight nose, the firmly-closed lips, the steady eyes. It was the face of a man whom above all things one could trust. “A poor dumb body,” Mrs Macalister had dubbed him, scornfully; but Margot had discovered that he was by no means dumb, and that once the first barriers were broken, he could talk with the best, and bring into his conversation the added eloquence of expression. She recalled the lighting of his absorbed eyes as he had looked down at her own white hand, and flushed at the remembrance.
Margot had often pitied the wives and sisters of enthusiastic fishermen who had perforce to sit mum-chance in the background, but to-day she was conscious of no dissatisfaction with her own position. She possessed her full share of the girl’s gift of building castles, and it would not be safe to say how high the airy structure had risen before suddenly the rod bent, and the Editor’s intent face lit up with elation. The fish was hooked; it now remained to “play” with him, in professional parlance, till he could be landed with credit to himself and his captor.
For the next half-hour Margot was keenly, vividly interested in studying the tactics of the game. The reel screamed out, as the captive made a gallant dash for liberty; the Editor splashed after him, running hastily by the side of the river, now reeling in his line, now allowing it full play; and at the distance of a few yards she ran with him, now holding her breath with suspense, now clasping her hands in triumph, until at last, his struggles over, the captive floated heavily upon the stream.
It was the end for which she had longed throughout thirty of the most exciting moments that she had ever known; but now that victory was secured, woman—like she began to feel remorse.
“Oh, is it dead? Have you killed it? But it’s horrid, you know—quite horrible! A big strong man like you, and that poor little fish—”
“Not little at all! It’s a good six-pounder,” protested the fisherman, quick to defend his sport against depreciation. “No—he’s not dead yet, but he soon will be. I will just—”
“Wait! Wait! Let me get out of the way.” Margot flew with her fingers in her ears, then pulled them out to cry—“Is it done? Is it over? Can I come back?”