This was not a pleasant drive. He was depressed with a vague aching and emptiness of the heart that he could not well account for. A schoolboy returning to his tasks after a long holiday would not be quite so profoundly miserable—so reckless, dissatisfied, and ill at ease. But perhaps it was the loss of one of those pleasant companions that was troubling him? Which one, then (he made pretence of asking himself), was he sorriest to part from? Lady Adela, who was always so bright and talkative and cheerful, so charming a hostess, so considerate and gentle a friend? Or the mystic-eyed Lady Sybil, who many an evening had led him away into the wonder-land of Chopin, for she was an accomplished pianist, if her own compositions were but feeble echoes of the masters? Or the more quick-spirited Lady Rosamund, the imperious and petulant beauty, who, in a way most unwonted with her, had bestowed upon him exceptional favor? Or that atrocious little flirt, Miss Georgie Lestrange, with her saucy smiles and speeches, her malicious laugh, and demure, significant eyes?—it was hardly to be wondered at if she made an impression on any young man, for the
minx had an abundance of good looks, despite her ruddy hair and pert nose. As for Miss Honnor Cunyngham—oh, no!—she was too far away—she lived remote, isolated, apart—she neither gave nor demanded sympathy or society—she was sufficient unto herself alone. But why ask whether it were this one or that? Soon he would be forgotten by them all. He would be swallowed up in the great city—swept away in the current of its feverish activities—his voice hardly heard above the general din; while they would still be pursuing their various pastimes in this little world of solitude and quiet, or moving on to entertain their friends with the more pompous festivities of the Braes.
It was odd that he should be carrying away with him the seeds of homesickness for a place in which his stay had been counted by weeks. So anxious, indeed, was he to assure himself that his relations with that beautiful valley and its inmates were not entirely severed that, the moment he reached Inverness, instead of going into the Station Hotel and ordering his dinner like a reasonable being, he must needs go straightway off to Mr. Watson's shop.
"I suppose," said he, with a little hesitation—for he did not know whether to mention Miss Cunyngham's name or not—he was afraid he might betray some quite uncalled-for embarrassment—"I suppose you know the flies they use on the Aivron this time of year."
Mr. Watson knew well enough; who better!
"I mean on the Strathaivron Lodge stretch of the water?" Lionel continued.
"Oh, yes; I am often sending flies to Miss Cunyngham," was the answer.
"Oh, Miss Cunyngham?" said Lionel. "It is for her I want some flies."
"Very well, sir, I will make up a small packet, and send it to her? Miss Cunyngham has an account with me—"
"No, no, that isn't what I mean at all," Lionel interposed, hastily. "I want to make Miss Cunyngham a little present. The fact is, I was using her book," he observed, with some importance (as if it could in the least concern a worthy tackle-maker in Inverness to know who had gone fishing with Miss Cunyngham), "and I whipped off a good number, so I want to make amends, don't you see?"