They entered the house together, followed by Garry and Westmore.
A dim, ruddy glow still lingered in the quiet rooms; every window glass was still lighted by the sun’s smouldering ashes sinking in the west; no lamps had yet been lighted on the ground floor.
“It’s the magic hour on the water,” Barres senior confided to Dulcie, “and here I am, doomed to a stiff shirt and table talk. In other words, nailed!” And he gave her a mysterious, melancholy, but significant look as though she alone were really fitted to understand the distressing dilemmas of an angler.
“Would it be too late to fish after dinner?” ventured Dulcie. “I’d love to go with you——”
“Would you, really!” he exclaimed, warmly grateful. “That is the spirit I admire in a girl! It’s human, it’s discriminating! And yet, do you know, nobody except myself in this household seems to care very much about angling? And, actually, I don’t believe there is another soul in this entire house who 315 would care to miss dinner for the sake of landing the finest trout in the second lake!—unless you would?”
“I really would!” said Dulcie, smiling. “Please try me, Mr. Barres.”
“Indeed, I shall! I’ll give you one of my pet rods, too! I’ll——”
The rich, metallic murmur of a temple gong broke out in the dim quiet of the house. It was the dressing bell.
“We’ll talk it over at dinner—if they’ll let me sit by you,” whispered Barres senior. And with the smile and the cautionary gesture of the true conspirator, he went away in the demi-light.
Thessalie came from the bay window, where she had been with Westmore and Garry, and she and Dulcie walked away toward the staircase hall, leisurely followed by the two men who, however, turned again into the western wing.