"I am sure I shall be only too delighted, Miss Stanley," Frank Meredyth put in, quickly, "if any friend of yours should join us—quite delighted—naturally—another gun will be all the better. And when I spoke of the joys of poaching, I assure you it was without any particular reference to anybody: I was telling you what would be my own ambition in other circumstances. Fred will write to Mr. Ross——"
"I beg your pardon," said the young gentleman, with something of coldness. "Mamie, you'd better write yourself."
"Not if there is going to be any disinclination on your part," she said.
"Disinclination?" he repeated. "Well, the way I look at it is simply this: you suspect that poaching is going on, and you ask the poacher to go shooting—why? Because you are afraid of him. It is a confession of weakness. What I would do, if the place were mine, is this: I'd send the keepers packing—and every man-jack of the gillies, too—until I knew I was master. It is perfectly preposterous that your own servants should connive at your being cheated——"
"Doesn't that sometimes happen in other spheres of life?" Frank Meredyth asked—he was evidently bent on being pacificator.
"I don't know—I don't care," said young Stanley, stubbornly. "What I do know is that if Ross is to come shooting with us on the Twelfth, well, then, Mamie had better send him the invitation: I'm not hypocrite enough to do it."
So matters remained there for the present; but the very next evening a singular incident occurred which caused a renewal of this discussion—with its conflict of prejudices and prepossessions. All night there had been heavy and steady rain; in the morning the Garra had risen considerably; towards the afternoon it was discovered that the river was fining down again; whereupon Fred Stanley proposed to his friend and companion that they should go along as soon as the sun was likely to be off the water, and try for a grilse or a sea-trout in the cool of the twilight. They did not propose to take either gillie or keeper with them; they had found out which were the proper flies; and they would have greater freedom without professional supervision. So Frank Meredyth shouldered a grilse-rod of moderate length and weight; his companion took with him both landing-net and gaff; and together they walked along to the banks of the stream, passing through the village on their way.
They were rather too early; the sun was still on the pools; but they had the rod to put together, the casting-line to soak, the flies to choose. Then they sate down on the breckan, and cigarettes were produced.
"Don't you think my sister puts me into a very awkward position?" said the younger man, discontentedly.
"Why?" asked his companion—being discreet.