One
half of its stump belongs to the Shaw man, the other half to m--to
us, Evelyn. He shan't fish below that log--no, sir!" His lordship
glared fiercely through his monocle in the direction of the far-away
log, his watery blue eyes blinking as malevolently as possible, his
long, aristocratic nose wrinkling at its base in fine disdain. His
five feet four of stature quivered with illy-subdued emotion, but
whether it was rage or the sudden recollection of the dog-trot through
the woods, it is beyond me to suggest.
"But suppose our fish venture into his waters, Cecil; what then? Isn't
that trespass?" demanded the Honorable Penelope Drake, youngest and
most cherished sister of his lordship.
"Now, don't he silly, Pen," cried her sister-in-law. "Of course we
can't regulate the fish."
"But I daresay his fish will come below the log, so what's the odds?"
said his lordship quickly. "A trout's a lawless brute at best."
"Is he big?" asked the Honorable Penelope lazily.
"They vary, my dear girl."
"I mean Mr. Shaw."
"Oh, I thought you meant the--but I don't know. What difference does
that make? Big or little, he has to stay off my grounds." Was it a
look of pride that his tall young wife bestowed upon him as he drew
himself proudly erect or was it akin to pity? At any rate, her gay
young American head was inches above his own when she arose and
suggested that they go inside and prepare for the housing of the
guests who were to come over from the evening train.
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