dropped down with the current toward sleepy Rouen.
A faint fresh odor of earth and water hung in the air, and through the sunlight, orange-tipped butterflies danced above the marsh grass, soft velvety butterflies flapped through the mossy woods.
Hastings was thinking of Valentine. It was two o’clock when Elliott strolled back, and frankly admitting that he had eluded Rowden, sat down beside Colette and prepared to doze with satisfaction.
“Where are your trout?” said Colette severely.
“They still live,” murmured Elliott and went fast asleep.
Rowden returned shortly after, and casting a scornful glance at the slumbering one, displayed three crimson-flecked trout.
“And that,” smiled Hastings lazily, “that is the holy end to which the faithful plod,—the slaughter of these small fish with a bit of silk and feather.”
Rowden disdained to answer him. Colette caught another gudgeon and awoke Elliott who protested and gazed about for the lunch baskets, as Clifford and Cécile came up demanding instant refreshment. Cécile’s skirts were soaked, and her gloves torn but she was happy, and Clifford, dragging out a two pound trout, stood still to receive the applause of the company.
“Where the deuce did you get that,” demanded Elliott.
Cécile, wet and enthusiastic, recounted the battle, and then Clifford eulogized her powers with the fly, and, in proof, produced from his
