The great mystery of it all was why Hugh should have gone deliberately and clandestinely to the Villa Amette on the night of the tragic affair.
Dorise was really an expert in casting a fly; also she excelled in several branches of sport. She was a splendid tennis-player, she rode well to hounds, and was very fair at golf. But that morning she had no heart for fishing, and especially in such company. She despised George Sherrard as a prig, fond of boasting of his means, and, indeed, so terribly self-conscious was he that in many circles he was declared impossible. Men disliked him for his swagger and conceit, and women despised him for his superior attitude towards them.
For a full hour Dorise continued making casts, but in vain. She changed her flies once or twice, until at last, by a careless throw, she got her tackle hooked high in a willow, with the result that, in endeavouring to extricate it, she broke off the hook. Then with an exclamation of impatience, she wound up her line and threw her rod upon the grass.
“Hallo, Dorise!” cried a voice. “No luck, eh?”
Sherrard had returned and had witnessed her outbreak of impatience.
“None!” she snapped, for the loss of her fly annoyed her. She knew that she had been careless, because under old Murray’s careful tuition she had become quite expert with the rod, both with trout and salmon.
“Never mind,” he said, “I’ve had similar luck. I’ve just got hooked up in a root and lost a fly. Let’s have lunch—shall we?”
Dorise was in no mood to lunch with her mother’s visitor, but, nevertheless, was compelled to be polite.
After washing their hands in the stream, they sat down together upon a great, grey boulder that had been worn smooth by the action of the water, and, taking out their sandwiches, began to eat them.
“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Sherrard suddenly, after they had been gossiping for some time. “Have you heard from your friend Henfrey lately?”