I smiled at the unintentional suggestion, and assisted her in the extrication, glancing across at Mrs. Loring’s disapproving face. Miss Gibson sat down and made room for me beside her. She twined the mandolin ribbons among her fingers, and Mrs. Gibson moved further away.
“Are you leaving town soon, Mr. Butterfield?” inquired the unsophisticated rosebud engagingly.
It was a better opening than I had looked for; I took advantage of it.
“I had meditated going down into the country for a little fishing shortly,” I replied; “probably in a week or two.”
“You are fond of fishing, are you not, Mr. Butterfield?” she inquired, tying a knot in a red ribbon.
“It’s a pleasure,” I answered, “as much of the mind as of the body. I know of nothing more exciting than the suspense of the first nibble. The angler, male or female, has peculiar joys and fears of which the layman knows nothing.”
“Oh, I should so love it!” replied Miss Gibson, glancing down at a small shoe that protruded from the lacy hem of her skirts. I followed her glance, and knew in my soul that Mrs. Loring and Carrie were watching me.
“The first nibble taken,” I continued, warming to my work, “all the finesse of playing your victim commences. There is a wide difference between hooking your fish and landing him. He must be humoured and coaxed, or you lose him, bait and all.”
I took one of the ribbons in my hand.
“It must be most annoying to have all your trouble for nothing, is it not, Mr. Butterfield?”