I don’t quite know how Mrs. Loring came to pick the Gibsons up. They were not what Carrie termed “quite nice people”; in what respect it was easy to see and difficult to say. Their jewellery was unexceptionable, and barely ostentatious; their manners passed the presentation standard, if falling a little short in the nicer requirements of the tÊte-À-tÊte. They did not offend in the matter of “Mr.” and “Esq.,” but sniffed somewhat of “R. S. V. P.” Mrs. Gibson, too, insisted on the forms of chaperonage in a way that was rather more than a passing bow to custom, and which suggested the possibility of her having learned the necessity in a different school from that of Mrs. Loring Chatterton. They had money.

“What do you think of the Gibsons, Rol?” Carrie had said to me; “I don’t like them.”

“I would rather introduce them to my relatives than to my friends,” I replied.

It was pretty evident to me after a short acquaintance with the Gibsons that they were disposed to make much of me. Carrie noticed the same thing, and spoke her mind on the subject with the freedom of engaged youth.

“Mrs. Gibson’s a horrid woman, Rol, and it’s my opinion she wants you to marry Miss Gibson.”

“Caroline,” I replied, “I applaud your concern, yet cannot blame Mrs. Gibson. She can see virtue where others see but corpulence. Besides, I consider Miss Gibson rather pretty.”

“I’m sure she’s not pretty,” retorted Caroline, and proceeded to enlighten me on matters interesting and feminine.

Mamma played the only game she knew very skilfully. Her only mistake was in the inapplicability of the means, which was not her fault. Indeed, I feel almost apologetically responsible myself, seeing the line worked so thoroughly, and mused instructively on the devotion of a mother to her child’s prospects.

Miss Gibson was accomplished, and expensively finished. As I had remarked to Carrie, she was decidedly pretty, and would talk Ibsen to you with her face in profile. She displayed an obtrusive girlhood that was not always as modest as its intention, and this pose of maidenhood in bud was apparently the one designed to net me.

Mrs. Gibson gave a musicale, to which I persuaded Carrie with difficulty. She had evidently talked things over with Mrs. Loring, for that lady appeared also, and I was greatly gratified at the concern with which they watched me. I decided to give them all the entertainment they desired. They talked with an obvious intention of interesting me and keeping me apart from Miss Gibson. I was surprised to see so little strategy in a married woman.

Miss Gibson was running a risk of palsying her hand in a vibrant mandolin solo, and producing music suggestive of the dotted line of a wheel-pen. I heard Carrie whisper to Mrs. Loring something about “St. Vitus’s Waltz,” for which I reproved her, considering whose house she was in. I then addressed Mrs. Loring.

“Somehow, Mrs. Loring,” I said, “one thinks more of English maidenhood as one advances in life. There is something in the unsophisticated rosebud——”

Mrs. Loring nodded significantly, implying there was a good deal in the unsophisticated rosebud, but I waited my time; I had a bolt in store for her.

Miss Gibson had finished the solo in a tinsel diminuendo, the intent of which was to enchain the soul a while longer in the regions to which it had been raised. I rose and crossed over to her. She was untangling herself from a mesh of coloured mandolin ribbons that would catch in the ruching of her corsage.

“They’re such a nuisance, Mr. Butterfield; I shall cut them off, I think.”

I smiled at the unintentional suggestion, and assisted her in the extrication, glancing across at Mrs. Loring’s disapproving face. Miss Gibson sat down and made room for me beside her. She twined the mandolin ribbons among her fingers, and Mrs. Gibson moved further away.

“Are you leaving town soon, Mr. Butterfield?” inquired the unsophisticated rosebud engagingly.

It was a better opening than I had looked for; I took advantage of it.

“I had meditated going down into the country for a little fishing shortly,” I replied; “probably in a week or two.”

“You are fond of fishing, are you not, Mr. Butterfield?” she inquired, tying a knot in a red ribbon.

“It’s a pleasure,” I answered, “as much of the mind as of the body. I know of nothing more exciting than the suspense of the first nibble. The angler, male or female, has peculiar joys and fears of which the layman knows nothing.”

“Oh, I should so love it!” replied Miss Gibson, glancing down at a small shoe that protruded from the lacy hem of her skirts. I followed her glance, and knew in my soul that Mrs. Loring and Carrie were watching me.

“The first nibble taken,” I continued, warming to my work, “all the finesse of playing your victim commences. There is a wide difference between hooking your fish and landing him. He must be humoured and coaxed, or you lose him, bait and all.”

I took one of the ribbons in my hand.

“It must be most annoying to have all your trouble for nothing, is it not, Mr. Butterfield?”

“You follow me perfectly,” I replied, “especially when you have made sure of your fish. Often enough you have chosen the wrong fly, or your line has been seen by the fish; and he is a shy thing, a very timid creature.”

She laid groundbait for me by dropping her fan. I nibbled again, and returned it to her.

“The fish, too, becomes cunning with age; and you must not play a middle-aged trout as a boy does a minnow. Believe me, Miss Gibson, he is not easily caught, if he is worth the landing.”

Mrs. Gibson passed with a smile, but did not disturb the situation. I rose to get Miss Gibson an ice, and resumed my seat near her. She placed the mandolin on the other side, adjusted her gown, and diminished the distance between us by an inch. Again her fan dropped, and as we both stooped to pick it up our hands touched.

Honestly, I acquit Miss Gibson of intention.

“Yet another method of landing your trout,” I continued, “is by what is called 'tickling’; but then your fish must be asleep, and it cannot fairly be classed as sport.”

“But surely, Mr. Butterfield,” said Miss Gibson, playing me with her eyes, “fishing must be very cruel? Fancy the poor thing with the hook!—doesn’t it hurt?”

“I believe,” I returned, “they rather enjoy it, Miss Gibson; particularly what is called the softer-mouthed kind of fish.”

“How very curious!” said the credulous rosebud, somewhat absently. She evidently took my remarks on the subject as so much natural history, and was interested in them only as such. She glanced at the mandolin ribbons, and I saw her revolving means of supplementing the line by the net. She made a fresh cast.

“And how long do you expect to be away, Mr. Butterfield?”

Mrs. Loring and Carrie were approaching; but Mrs. Gibson, who had not apparently been watching, intercepted them, and dammed the stream adroitly. Carrie was placed at the piano, and the preserve maintained inviolate. Mrs. Loring talked sweetly to her hostess, with one eye on me.

“I could not say,” I replied. “Until my friends yearn for me back again, I suppose.”

She made the response elementary, and shortened her line.

“But your friends will be sorry to lose you at all,” she replied, with a soft sparkle under her lashes. “I’m sure mother will.”

“Indeed?” I answered. “My friends conceal their desire for my presence with most generous consideration. I am allowed great liberty.”

“Oh, Mr. Butterfield, how can you say so?”

I ought not to have done it. I reproach myself for it. But the temptation! Miss Gibson was really nice, if not “quite nice.” It was unfair; but I am of no stronger fibre than my fellow-men. As I leaned forward, I knew that the landing-net was ready, and the gaff poised. I sought her eyes, and spoke low.

“Shall you be sorry to lose me, Miss Gibson?”

The colour rose faintly on her cheek. She hesitated, her eyes cast down. She had not fallen in love with me. It was the mother’s doing.

Help came from outside. Mrs. Gibson blinked her vigilance for one short moment. Carrie crowded the last few bars of music into an accelerando that would have harrowed the soul of the composer, and she and Mrs. Loring were upon us.

“Oh, Miss Gibson,” said Carrie, with a sweetness of expression that astonished me, considering the real state of her feelings, “do please play again. Rollo and I must go very shortly, and we should so love to hear you. Won’t you, dear?”

“We cannot possibly leave without,” implored Mrs. Chatterton.

Nothing was possible but compliance, and Miss Gibson took her seat near the piano.

Mrs. Loring and Caroline mounted determined guard over me, one on each side, but didn’t speak. It was not until we were on the way home that the storm broke.

“Rollo Butterfield,” said Mrs. Loring icily, “I’m deeply surprised at you.”

“And why, my dear Mrs. Loring?” I asked blandly.

“Did you propose to that—that Gibson girl?”

“Proposal, Mrs. Loring,” I replied, “is an excitement that would be of more general indulgence but for the risk of acceptance. It is a valuable sensation, and I greatly regret its attendant danger.”

“You have no more perception than a child. Don’t you know that those people are doing all they can to catch you? I never saw anything so shameless.”

She had asked for it, and she should have it.

“Mrs. Loring,” I replied slowly and distinctly, “your ingenuousness charms me. You call Mrs. Gibson’s conduct shameless: yet you yourself would empty half the bachelors’ clubs in London. I forget precisely the number of years it is since you first endeavored to curtail my own celibate freedom, but I believe you have devoted no small part of your attention to my poor case.”

“Millie Dixon is different,” she retorted.

Of course Millicent was different, but I held her to the logic.

“We are not discussing Millicent, but the ethics of angling. I am surprised that you should not recognise your own position in the matter. You do not want me to be more precise?”

“I don’t want you to be anything but moderately sane,” she returned. “If you can’t see the difference between the Gibsons and Millicent Dixon——”

She left me to conclude the sentence for myself. Mrs. Loring Chatterton was in a bad temper, and evaded the argument pettishly. I turned to Caroline.

“Has my little sister anything to say?” I asked, in a “come one come all” tone.

She hadn’t. She cuddled her face against my shoulder, and pulled nervously at her glove fingers.

“But, Rol, dear,” she said anxiously, “what were you and Miss Gibson talking about?”

I took her hand.

“Nothing, Caroline,” I replied, “but a few observations on the trout, his habits, and the method of his capture.”

“Exemplifying the fact,” Mrs. Loring struck in crossly, “that he is a cold-blooded creature.”

Mrs. Loring scored a bye.