She sat with her hands folded in her lap and looked straight at the
sportsman with a frank interest which surprised him. He was a modest lad,
but the sudden presentment of an object so lovely woke his pluck and he
fished ostentatiously to Joan's very feet, suspecting that the absurdity of
the action would not be apparent to her. She watched the morsel of feather
and fur dragged across the water after the fantastic fashion of the "chuck
and chancer," and he, when her eyes were on the water, kept his own fast
upon her face. Both man and woman were profoundly anxious each to hear the
other's voice, but neither felt brave enough to speak first. Then the
artist's ingenuity found a means, and Joan presently saw his fly stick fast
upon the side of the stream where she sat. The thing was caught at the
seed-head of a rush within reach of Joan's hand, and while this incident
appeared absolutely accidental, yet it was not so, for the artist had long
been endeavoring to get fast somewhere hard by Joan. Now, finding his
maneuver accomplished, he made but the feeblest efforts to loosen the fly,
then raised his hat and accosted Joan.
"Might I trouble you to set my line clear? Ashamed to ask such a thing, but
it would be awfully kind. Oh, thank you, thank you. Take care of your
fingers! The hook is very sharp."
Joan got the fly free in a moment, and then, to Harry Murdoch's
gratification, addressed him.
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