“It must be most annoying to have all your trouble for nothing, is it
not, Mr. Butterfield?”
“You follow me perfectly,” I replied, “especially when you have made
sure of your fish. Often enough you have chosen the wrong fly, or your
line has been seen by the fish; and he is a shy thing, a very timid
creature.”
She laid groundbait for me by dropping her fan. I nibbled again, and
returned it to her.
“The fish, too, becomes cunning with age; and you must not play a
middle-aged trout as a boy does a minnow. Believe me, Miss Gibson, he is
not easily caught, if he is worth the landing.”
Mrs. Gibson passed with a smile, but did not disturb the situation. I
rose to get Miss Gibson an ice, and resumed my seat near her. She placed
the mandolin on the other side, adjusted her gown, and diminished the
distance between us by an inch. Again her fan dropped, and as we both
stooped to pick it up our hands touched.
Honestly, I acquit Miss Gibson of intention.
“Yet another method of landing your trout,” I continued, “is by what is
called 'tickling’; but then your fish must be asleep, and it cannot
fairly be classed as sport.”
“But surely, Mr. Butterfield,” said Miss Gibson, playing me with her
eyes, “fishing must be very cruel? Fancy the poor thing with the
hook!--doesn’t it hurt?”
“I believe,” I returned, “they rather enjoy it, Miss Gibson;
particularly what is called the softer-mouthed kind of fish.”
“How very curious!” said the credulous rosebud, somewhat absently. She
evidently took my remarks on the subject as so much natural history, and
was interested in them only as such. She glanced at the mandolin
ribbons, and I saw her revolving means of supplementing the line by the
net. She made a fresh cast.
“And how long do you expect to be away, Mr. Butterfield?”
Mrs. Loring and Carrie were approaching; but Mrs. Gibson, who had not
apparently been watching, intercepted them, and dammed the stream
adroitly. Carrie was placed at the piano, and the preserve maintained
inviolate. Mrs. Loring talked sweetly to her hostess, with one eye on
me.
“I could not say,” I replied. “Until my friends yearn for me back again,
I suppose.”
She made the response elementary, and shortened her line.
“But your friends will be sorry to lose you at all,” she replied, with a
soft sparkle under her lashes. “I’m sure mother will.”
“Indeed?” I answered. “My friends conceal their desire for my presence
with most generous consideration. I am allowed great liberty.”
“Oh, Mr. Butterfield, how can you say so?”
I ought not to have done it. I reproach myself for it. But the
temptation! Miss Gibson was really nice, if not “quite nice.” It was
unfair; but I am of no stronger fibre than my fellow-men. As I leaned
forward, I knew that the landing-net was ready, and the gaff poised. I
sought her eyes, and spoke low.
“Shall _you_ be sorry to lose me, Miss Gibson?”
The colour rose faintly on her cheek. She hesitated, her eyes cast down.
She had not fallen in love with me. It was the mother’s doing.
Help came from outside. Mrs. Gibson blinked her vigilance for one short
moment. Carrie crowded the last few bars of music into an accelerando
that would have harrowed the soul of the composer, and she and Mrs.
Loring were upon us.
“Oh, Miss Gibson,” said Carrie, with a sweetness of expression that
astonished me, considering the real state of her feelings, “do please
play again. Rollo and I must go very shortly, and we should so love to
hear you. Won’t you, dear?”
“We cannot possibly leave without,” implored Mrs. Chatterton.
Nothing was possible but compliance, and Miss Gibson took her seat near
the piano.
Mrs. Loring and Caroline mounted determined guard over me, one on each
side, but didn’t speak. It was not until we were on the way home that
the storm broke.
“Rollo Butterfield,” said Mrs. Loring icily, “I’m deeply surprised at
you.”
“And why, my dear Mrs. Loring?” I asked blandly.
“Did you propose to that--that Gibson girl?”
“Proposal, Mrs. Loring,” I replied, “is an excitement that would be of
more general indulgence but for the risk of acceptance. It is a valuable
sensation, and I greatly regret its attendant danger.”
“You have no more perception than a child. Don’t you know that those
people are doing all they can to catch you? I never saw anything so
shameless.”
She had asked for it, and she should have it.
“Mrs. Loring,” I replied slowly and distinctly, “your ingenuousness
charms me. You call Mrs. Gibson’s conduct shameless: yet you yourself
would empty half the bachelors’ clubs in London. I forget precisely the
number of years it is since you first endeavored to curtail my own
celibate freedom, but I believe you have devoted no small part of your
attention to my poor case.”
“Millie Dixon is different,” she retorted.
Of course Millicent was different, but I held her to the logic.
“We are not discussing Millicent, but the ethics of angling. I am
surprised that you should not recognise your own position in the matter.
You do not want me to be more precise?”
“I don’t want you to be anything but moderately sane,” she returned. “If
you can’t see the difference between the Gibsons and Millicent
Dixon----”
She left me to conclude the sentence for myself. Mrs. Loring Chatterton
was in a bad temper, and evaded the argument pettishly. I turned to
Caroline.
“Has my little sister anything to say?” I asked, in a “come one come
all” tone.
She hadn’t. She cuddled her face against my shoulder, and pulled
nervously at her glove fingers.
“But, Rol, dear,” she said anxiously, “what _were_ you and Miss Gibson
talking about?”