"Good-bye," she said; "I'm going to get into all sorts of mischief. The black flag is hoisted. Malheur aux hommes!"
"There's one now," said Duane, laughing as Delancy Grandcourt's bulk appeared among the trees along Hurryon Water. "Lord! what a bungler he is on a trout-stream!"
Rosalie turned and gazed at the big, clumsy young man who was fishing with earnestness and method every unlikely pool in sight.
"Does he belong to anybody?" she asked, considering him. "I want to do real damage. He is usually at Geraldine's heels, isn't he?"
"Oh, let him alone," said Duane; "he's an awfully decent fellow. If a man of that slow, plodding, faithful species ever is thoroughly aroused by a woman, it will be a lively day for his tormentor."
Rosalie's blue eyes sparkled: "Will it?"
"Yes, it will. You had better not play hob with Delancy. Are you intending to?"
"I don't know. Look at the man! That's the fourth time he's landed his line in a bush! He'll fall into that pool if he's not—mercy!—there he goes! Did you ever see such a genius for clumsiness?"
She was moving forward through the trees as she spoke; Duane called after her in a warning voice:
"Don't try to do anything to disturb him. It's not good sport; he's a mighty decent sort, I tell you."