Then he bethought him of what Honnor Cunyngham, with her firm independence of character, her proud self-reliance, would have said to all these timorous fancies.  He knew perfectly well what she would say.  She would say, “Well, but even if Miss Burgoyne were to appear at Strathaivron Lodge, how could that affect you?  You are yourself; you are apart from her; her visit will be Lady Adela’s doing, not yours.  And if people choose to regard you as one of a band of strolling players, how can that harm you?  Why should you care?  The opinion that is of value to you is your own opinion; be right with yourself; and leave others to think what they please.  Whoever could so entirely misjudge your position must be a fool; why should you pause for a moment to consider the opinion of a fool or any number of fools?  ‘To thine own self be true;’ and let that suffice.”

For he had come to know pretty accurately, during these frequent if intermittent talks and chats along the Aivron banks, how Miss Honnor would regard most things.  The wild weather had been succeeded by a period of calm; the river had dwindled and dwindled, until it seemed merely to creep along its channel; where a rushing brown current had come down there now appeared long banks of stones, lilac and silver-gray and purple, basking in the sun; while half-way across the stream in many places the yellow sand and shingle shone through the lazily rippling shallows.  Consequently there was little fishing to be done.  Honnor Cunyngham went out all the same, for she loved the river-side in all weathers; and as often as he discreetly might, Lionel accompanied her; but as they had frequently to wait for half-hours together until a cloud should come over, he had ample opportunity of learning her views and opinions on a great variety of subjects.  For she spoke freely and frankly and simply in this enforced idleness; and, from just a little touch here and there, Lionel began to think that she must have a good deal more of womanly tenderness and sympathy than he had given her credit for.  Certainly she was always most considerate towards himself; she seemed to understand that he was a little sensitive on the score of his out-of-door performances; and while she made light of his occasional blunders, she would quietly hint to him that he in turn ought to exercise a generous judgment when those people at the Lodge ventured to enter a province in which he was a past master.

“We are all amateurs in something or another, Mr. Moore,” she would say.  “And the professionals should not treat us with scorn.”

“I wonder in what you show yourself an amateur,” said he, bethinking himself how she seemed to keep aloof from the music, art, and literature of her accomplished sisters-in-law.  “Everything you do you do thoroughly well.”

She laughed.

“You have never seen me try to do anything but cast a line,” said she, “and if I can manage that, the credit rests with old Robert.”