“A theatrical stunner!” mused Ruth, in her clearest tones. “It is good to know how one strikes one’s friends.”
“The disciplining of this young person is to be left to me,” said the colonel. “Daisy, everything else about you is all wrong, but your frock is all right.”
“That is simple and comprehensive and reassuring,” murmured Ruth absently, as she bent over the fly-book with Gethryn.
After much consultation and many thoughtful glances at the bit of water which glittered and dashed through the narrow meadow in front of the house, they arranged the various colored lures and leaders, and standing up, looked at Colonel Dene, reading his novel.
“What? Oh! Come along, then!” said he, on being made aware that he was waited for, and standing up also, he dropped the volume into his creel and lighted a cigar.
“Are you going to take that trash along, dear?” asked his daughter.
“What trash? The work of fiction? That’s literature, as the gentleman said about Dante.”
“Rex,” said Mrs Dene, buttoning the colonel’s coat over his snowy collar, “I put this expedition into your hands. Take care of these two children.”
She stood and watched them until they passed the turn beyond the bridge. Mr Blumenthal watched them too, from behind the curtains in his room. His leer went from one to the other, but always returned and rested on Rex. Then, as there was a mountain chill in the morning air, he crawled back into bed, hauling his night cap over his generous ears and rolling himself in a cocoon of featherbeds, until he should emerge about noon, like some sleek, fat moth.
The anglers walked briskly up the wooded road, chatting and laughing, with now and then a sage and critical glance at the water, of which they caught many glimpses through the trees. Gethryn and Ruth were soon far ahead. The colonel sauntered along, switching leaves with his rod and indulging in bursts of Parisian melody.