A person so attired in boating garb should have been reclining in a punt, or on the banks of the Thames, but Stranleigh felt compensated for that celebrated river's remoteness by a subdued murmur from the waterfall in the forest depths, where the crystal flood of his favourite trout stream took a header over rocks into a deep pool secluded in the green glade.
Stranleigh congratulated himself that he was not in London on such a day, and that no London men were within calling distance. He remembered dreamily that nothing more strenuous was ahead of him than the casting of a fly upon the stream as evening approached, and evening was still a long way off. As he thought of this pleasure, an extra wave of laziness swept over him, and he sleepily estimated that the day was too clear and bright for the successful capture of trout.
The silence was so intense that he distinguished afar off the sound of carriage wheels, and even the clop-clop-clop of a loosened horse-shoe on the hard high road. Then there was a pause, just long enough for the Park gate to be opened, and Stranleigh partially roused himself, hoping this was no visitor, consoled by the thought, a minute later, that very few people knew where he was.
