“I suppose you are very stiff,” she said, cheerfully, as they left the lodge—­he walking heavily in waders and brogues—­old Robert coming up behind with rod and gaff.  “But I should imagine you do not ask for much sympathy.  Shall I tell you what you are thinking of at this moment?  You have a vague fear that the foxes may have got at that precious animal during the night; and you are anxious to see it safely down here at the lodge; and you want to have the head sent at once to Mr. Macleay’s in Inverness, so that it mayn’t get mixed up with the lot of others which will be coming in when the driving in the big forests begins.  Isn’t that about it?”

“You are a witch,” said he, “or else you have been deer-stalking yourself.  But, you know, Miss Honnor, it’s all very well to go on an expedition like that of yesterday once in a way—­as a piece of bravado, almost; and no doubt you are very proud when you see the dead stag lying on the heather before you; but I am not sure I should ever care for it as a continuous occupation, even if I were likely to have the chance.  The excitement is too furious, too violent.  But look at a day by the side of a salmon river!” continued this adroit young man.  “There is absolute rest and peace—­except when you are engaged in fighting a salmon; and, for my own part, that is not necessary to my enjoyment at all.  No; I would rather see you fish; then I know that everything is going right—­that every pool is being properly cast over—­that Robert is satisfied.  And in the meantime I can sit and drink in all the beauty of the scenery—­the quietude—­the loneliness; that is a real change for me, after the busy life of London.  I have got to be great friends with this river; I seem to have known it all my life; when we were coming home last evening, after being away in those awful solitudes, the sound of the Geinig was the most welcome thing I ever heard, I think.”

“It is to the Geinig we are going now,” said his companion, who appeared quite to ignore the insidious appeal conveyed in these touching sentiments.  “I promised to leave all the Aivron pools to Mr. Lestrange.  But we may take the Junction Pool, for he won’t have time to come beyond the Bad Step; and, by the way, Mr. Moore, if you feel stiff after yesterday, going up and down the Bad Step won’t do you any harm.”

Well, the ascent of this Bad Step (whether so named from the French or the Gaelic nobody seemed to know) was not so difficult, after all, for it was gradual; and a brief breathing-space on the summit showed them the far-stretching landscape terminating in the wild mountains of Assynt; but the sheer descent into the gloomy chasm on the other side was rather an awkward thing for any one encased in waders.  However, Lionel managed somehow or another to slide and scramble down this zig-zag track on the face of the loose debris; they reached the bottom in safety and crossed the burn; they followed a more secure pathway cut along the precipitous slope overlooking the Aivron; then they got down once more to the river-side, and found themselves walking over velvet-soft turf, in a wood of thinly scattered birch and hazel.