“Yes,” said he, and he paused for a second—­for there was some wild wish in his heart that she would have just one word of regret.  “I must go,” he continued, seeing that she did not speak.  “I am wanted.  And I have had a long holiday—­a long and delightful holiday; and I’m sure, when I look back over it, I can’t thank you sufficiently for all your kindness to me.”

“Thank me, Mr. Moore?” she said, with obvious surprise.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” he said, warmly.  “If it was only a word now and again, it was always encouragement.  I should never have ventured out after the deer if it had not been for you; probably I should never have taken up a gun at all.  Then all those delightful days by the river; haven’t I to thank you for them?  It seems rather hard that I should be so much indebted to you—­”

“I am sure you are not at all,” she said.

“—­without a chance of ever being able to show my gratitude; repayment, of course, is out of the question, for we could never meet again in similar circumstances—­in reversed circumstances, rather—­I mean, you have had it all your own way in your—­your toleration, shall I say?—­or your commiseration, of a hopeless duffer.  Oh, I know what I’m talking about.  Most people in your position would have said, ’Well, let him go and make a fool of himself!’ and most people in my position would have said, ‘No, I’m not going to make a fool of myself.’”

“I don’t quite understand,” she said, simply, “why you should care so much for the opinion of other people.”

“I suppose there is no chance of my ever seeing you in London, Miss Honnor,” he continued, rather breathlessly.  “If—­if I might presume on the acquaintanceship formed up here, I should like—­well, I should like to show you I had not forgotten your kindness.  Do you ever come to London?—­I think Miss Lestrange said you sometimes did.”

“Why, I am in London a great part of every year!” she said.  “And this winter I shall be next door to it; for my mother goes to Brighton in November; and she will want me to be with her.”

“To Brighton!” he said, quickly and eagerly.  “Then, of course, you would be in London sometimes.  Would you—­would you care to come behind the scenes of a theatre?—­or be present at a dress rehearsal, or something of that kind?  No, I’m afraid not—­I’m afraid that wouldn’t interest you—­”

“Oh, but it would,” she said, pleasantly enough.  “It would interest me very much.”

And perhaps he would have gone on to assure her how delighted he would be to have the opportunity of showing her, in the great capital, that he had not forgotten her kindness and help in these Northern wilds, but that Miss Honnor, seeing that their frugal meal was over, called for Robert.  The handsome old fisherman appeared at once; but she instantly perceived by his face that something was wrong.

“This is ferry strange, Miss Honnor,” said he, “that the fly-book is not in the bag.  And I could not have dropped it out.  I was not thinking of looking for it when we started, for I knew I had put it there—­”