“You follow me perfectly,” I replied, “especially when you have made sure of your fish. Often enough you have chosen the wrong fly, or your line has been seen by the fish; and he is a shy thing, a very timid creature.”
She laid groundbait for me by dropping her fan. I nibbled again, and returned it to her.
“The fish, too, becomes cunning with age; and you must not play a middle-aged trout as a boy does a minnow. Believe me, Miss Gibson, he is not easily caught, if he is worth the landing.”
Mrs. Gibson passed with a smile, but did not disturb the situation. I rose to get Miss Gibson an ice, and resumed my seat near her. She placed the mandolin on the other side, adjusted her gown, and diminished the distance between us by an inch. Again her fan dropped, and as we both stooped to pick it up our hands touched.
Honestly, I acquit Miss Gibson of intention.
“Yet another method of landing your trout,” I continued, “is by what is called 'tickling’; but then your fish must be asleep, and it cannot fairly be classed as sport.”
“But surely, Mr. Butterfield,” said Miss Gibson, playing me with her eyes, “fishing must be very cruel? Fancy the poor thing with the hook!—doesn’t it hurt?”
“I believe,” I returned, “they rather enjoy it, Miss Gibson; particularly what is called the softer-mouthed kind of fish.”
“How very curious!” said the credulous rosebud, somewhat absently. She evidently took my remarks on the subject as so much natural history, and was interested in them only as such. She glanced at the mandolin ribbons, and I saw her revolving means of supplementing the line by the net. She made a fresh cast.
“And how long do you expect to be away, Mr. Butterfield?”