Nothing is rising in the Mill pool.
And to-morrow we go away.
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The end of our time here has approached with frightful rapidity. For the last week I have been going about a prey to settled gloom. Every passing second has seemed to bring me a day nearer to exile. I have not fished. I have rested upon my three-and-a-half pounder. No anti-climaxes for me.
What am I doing with this rod and landing net, by the Mill pool?
Oh, my dear sir, I am not a consistent person at all, you know. Besides, I am not really fishing. Only saying good-bye. And it is madness to come near a river without a rod.
Besides, look at the water. Look at it, I say. What chance do you fancy I have of an anti-climax? I said there were to be none for me.
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To-morrow we go away.
The thoughts of that very large fish has done a little—only a little—to check the galloping of the moments.
It is matter for speculation at what moment in a season of bliss the character of time's flight
