bank! Them and their planks and their fishes with white marks and their dirty little twigs!
I tried in vain to point out that the twig in question, being laved perpetually by the crystal water of the fairest stream on earth, could not be otherwise than spotless, but she would not hear a word in defence of Chavender and Wickham. She poured pitiless scorn upon their innocent fishing talk—the poor fellows. Nay, she parodied it, exhibiting a knowledge of its character and a keen appreciation of its possibilities in this direction with which I could never have credited her. It seems out of all reason that a woman who, up to a few short weeks ago, had never so much as seen a chalk-stream, should have gained such an insight into the manner in which dry-fly anglers communicate with one another.
True, I have seldom come in to a meal during all our time here without giving her some little account of my morning's sport. And whenever I have had a fish to show, I have generally described its situation, the state of the wind, the brightness or dullness of the weather, and perhaps drawn a diagram of the place showing the force and direction of the currents or the disposition of natural obstacles to success. And I am not surprised that she should be familiar with the names and appearances of many of the commoner artificial
