“A seven-pounder, if he has luck!”
“Oh, Rantorlie, that won’t do at all!” cried Rantorlie’s wife in dismay. “I want him to have the chance of something really big. It’s our duty to see that our guests are properly treated, and, though you don’t like Mr. Rubelius——”
“Dear child, I don’t dislike Mr. Rubelius. I simply don’t think about him any more than I think about the sea-lice on the new-run fish. They are there, and they look nasty. Rubelius is here, and so does he.”
“Doesn’t he—especially in evening-dress with a red camelia and a turn-down collar?” gasped the Duchess.
The Duke could not restrain a smile at the vision evoked, as Mr. Rubelius, panoplied in india-rubber, cork, and unshrinkables, strode into view. One of the gillies bore his rod, the other his basket. A third followed with that wobbliest of aquatic vehicles, a coracle, strapped upon his back. With a grin, the man waded into the water, unhitched his light burden, placed it on the rapid stream, and stood, knee-deep, holding the short painter, as the frisky coracle tugged at it.
“You’re going to try one of those things?” said the Duke, as Rubelius gracefully lifted his waterproof helmet to the Duchess. “You know they’re awfully crank, don’t you, and not at all safe for a bung—I mean, a beginner?”
“The men, your Grace,” explained Mr. Rubelius, “are going to peg me down in the bed of the stream, a little way out from the shore.”
“But if your peg draws,” said his host, “do you know how to use your paddle?”
“That will be all right, your Grace,” said the affable Rubelius. “I know how to punt. Often on the Thames at Twicken’am——”
“My dear sir, the Haste in Moss-shire and the Thames at Twickenham are two very different rivers,” said the Duke, beckoning his gillies to follow, and turning away. “I hope the man may not come to any harm,” he said. “Ethelwyne, will you walk down to the Falls with me? I”—he reddened a little—“I sent the others on in carts by road. We see so little of each other these days.”