“I didn’t know you were a fisherman, Mr. Curtis,” said Constance, and her remark led him to talk easily and sanely of his pastime. He was a keen angler, and had once been a member of Driffield and accustomed to take three or four miles of a Norwegian river every summer. For a few moments Stimson was mercifully forgotten.
Mr. Curtis strode briskly along, sniffing the fragrant air and pausing every now and again to illustrate with his stick a difficult cast, as he described his pursuit of a whacking great fellow, not an ounce under four pounds, which he had hooked late on a May evening, and which had apparently cost him some trouble to bring to the net.
“I believe there is some fishing here,” said Constance. “The man who drove me up from Thonon said that there were trout in the Dranse. We
