Very slowly the dull cloud lifted from the sunlit water. Dead fish floated there; others, half-stunned, lay awash with fins quivering, or strove to turn over, shining silver white in the morning sun.
XXIX
ASTHORE
The sun hung low over Northbrook hills as Barres turned his touring car in between the high, white service gates of Foreland Farms, swung around the oval and backed into the garage.
Barres senior, very trim in tweeds, the web-straps of a creel and a fly-book wallet crossing his breast, glanced up from his absorbing occupation of preparing evening casts on a twelve-foot, tapered mist-leader.
“Hello,” he said absently, glancing from his son to Westmore through his monocle, “where have you been keeping yourselves all day?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later, dad,” said Garry, emerging from the garage with Westmore. “Where is mother?”
“In the kennels, I believe.... What do you think of this cast, Jim?—a whirling dun for a dropper, a hare’s ear for a——” He checked himself; glanced doubtfully at the two young men.