I love to see my fish. The unseen may be a monster (there is always that glorious uncertainty). She is more likely one of these little graylings, and your time has been utterly lost. But the sight of a three-pounder coasting a still pool is in itself an inspiration, and he provides just as much of glorious uncertainty as the smallest ring ever made by invisible fish. Therefore, I particularly haunt this shadowed place which is the best on the river. Here Purfling never comes. Such angling as one does here is, in Purfling's eyes, poacher's work, devil's work.
Here, then, I can avoid Purfling, and exercise that patience which is supposed to be an essential part of the angler's equipment.
In the days when I used to dine out, I always found that the lady who had the misfortune to go in with me knew—though we might be total strangers to one another—that I fished. It was usually the salmon or the filleted sole or the turbot (no other fishes are served at dinner parties) which suggested the observation, "I think you fish." The stranger we were to one another, the sooner this uncanny knowledge was manifested. I often pondered the mystery. I examined myself to see if angling had left some mark which these sharp-sighted creatures recognised. I wondered if my hands gave me away, if the wielding
