"It's their affair," she said curtly. "I've got to make Delancy fish or we won't have enough trout for luncheon. Scott!" calling to her brother, "your horrid trout won't rise this morning. For goodness' sake, try to catch something beside lizards and water-beetles!"
For a moment she stood looking around her, as though perplexed and preoccupied. There was sunlight on the glade and on the ripples, but the daylight seemed to have become duller to her.
She walked up-stream for a little distance before she noticed Grandcourt plodding faithfully at her heels.
"Oh!" she said impatiently, "I thought you were fishing. You must catch something, you know, or we'll all go hungry."
"Nothing bites on these bally flies," he explained.
"Nothing bites because your flies are usually caught in a tree-top. Trout are not arboreal. I'm ashamed of you, Delancy. If you can't keep your line free in the woods"—she hesitated, then reddening a little under her tan—"you had better go and get a canoe and find Duane Mallett and help him catch—something worth while."
"Don't you want me to stay with you?" asked the big, awkward fellow appealingly. "There's no fun in being with Rosalie and Duane."
"No, I don't. Look! Your flies are in that bush! Untangle them and go to the Gray Water."
"Won't you come, too, Miss Seagrave?"
"No; I'm going back to the house.... And don't you dare return without a decent brace of trout."