But here was a bend of the river sheltered from the weltering sun by a steep and wooded hill; and Miss Cunyngham, at old Robert’s suggestion, began work again.  It was really most interesting to watch this graceful casting; Lionel, sitting down on the heather and smoking a cigarette, seemed to want no other occupation; he forgot what the object of throwing a fly was, the throwing of the fly seemed to be enough in itself.  He had grown to think that all these oily sweeps of brown water, touched here and there by dark, olive-green reflections, were useful only as showing where the fly dropped; there was no fish watching the slow jerking of the “Bishop” across the current; the one salmon that haunted the Rock Pool had put in an appearance and gone away long ago.  But suddenly there was a short, sharp scream of the reel; then silence.

“What is it, Robert?” she said—­apparently holding on to something.  “Another sea-trout?”

“Oh, no, Miss Honnor, I am not thinking that—­”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when it became abundantly clear that the unknown creature in the deeps had not the least intention of concealing his identity.  A sudden rush down-stream, followed by a wild splashing and thrashing on the surface, was only the first of a series of performances that left Miss Honnor not one single moment of breathing-space.  Either she was following him rapidly down the river, or following him up again, or reeling in swiftly as he came sailing towards her, or again she could only stand in breathless suspense as he flung himself into the air and then beat and churned the water, shaking the line this way and that.

“Oh, you wicked little wretch!” she cried, at a particularly vicious flourish out of the water; but this was the kind of fish she liked; this was a fish that fought fair—­a gentlemanly fish, without the thought of a sulk in him—­a very Prince Rupert even among grilse; this was no malevolent, underhand, deep-boring tugger.  Indeed, these brilliant dashes and runs and summersaults soon began to tell The gallant little grilse was plainly getting the worst of it.  He allowed himself to be led; but, whenever she stepped back on the bank and tried to induce him to come in, at the first appearance of shallow water he would instantly sheer off again with all the strength that was left in him.  Fortunately he seemed inclined to head up-stream; and she humored him in that, for there the water was deeper under the bank.  Even then he fought splendidly to the last.  As soon as he got to recognize that an enemy was waiting for him—­an enemy armed with some white, shining thing that he more than once warily slipped out of—­he would make struggle after struggle to keep away—­until at last there was a sudden, swift, decisive stroke of the steel clip, and Robert had his glittering prize safely ashore.

“What o’clock is it, Mr. Moore?” said Miss Honnor—­but she seemed pleased with the result of this brisk encounter.