“My dear Ethelwyne,” asked the Duke, “where did you pick up Mr. Rubelius? Or, I should ask, perhaps, how did that gentleman attain to your acquaintance?”
“It is rather a long, dull story,” said his wife, “but he is really an excellent person, if a little vulgar, and—— You won’t bother me any more about him, Rantorlie, will you?”
She clasped her gloved hands about her husband’s arm as they stood together on the river beach below Rantorlie. The turbid flood of the Haste, tinged brown by spate, raced past between its rocky banks; the pine-forests climbed to meet the mountains, and the mountains lifted to the sky their crowns of snow. There was a smell of spring in the air, and word of new-run fish in the string of deep pools below the famous Falls.
“I will not, if you particularly wish it,” said her husband. “But to banish your guest from my mind—that is impossible. For one thing, he is hung with air-belts, bottles, and canteens, as though he were starting for a tour in the wildest part of Norway. I believe his equipment includes a hatchet, and I think that wad he wears upon his shoulders is a rubber tent, but I am not sure. He has never heard of prawn-baiting, his rods are of the most alarming weight and size, and his salmon-flies are as large and gaudy as paroquets, and calculated, McDona says, to frighten any self-respecting fish out of his senses. We can’t allow such a gorgeous tyro to spoil the best water. He must be sent to some of the smaller pools, with a man to look after him.”
“But he—he won’t be likely to catch anything there, will he?” asked the Duchess anxiously.
“Oh, Rantorlie, that won’t do _at all_!” cried Rantorlie’s wife in dismay. “I want him to have the chance of something _really big_. It’s our duty to see that our guests are properly treated, and, though you don’t like Mr. Rubelius——”
“Dear child, I don’t dislike Mr. Rubelius. I simply don’t think about him any more than I think about the sea-lice on the new-run fish. They are there, and they look nasty. Rubelius is here, and so does he.”
“_Doesn’t_ he—especially in evening-dress with a red camelia and a turn-down collar?” gasped the Duchess.
The Duke could not restrain a smile at the vision evoked, as Mr. Rubelius, panoplied in india-rubber, cork, and unshrinkables, strode into view. One of the gillies bore his rod, the other his basket. A third followed with that wobbliest of aquatic vehicles, a coracle, strapped upon his back. With a grin, the man waded into the water, unhitched his light burden, placed it on the rapid stream, and stood, knee-deep, holding the short painter, as the frisky coracle tugged at it.