The dimpled water ran and swirled, the line
flashed in the sun. Three casts, four; a splash, a taut line, and his
shout, "Come on, quick; I've got him." Sanchia glided swiftly down the
bank, her eyes alight, the lines of neck and shoulder finely alert. Her
eyes shone, her lips parted; she looked the Divine Huntress to whom
Senhouse had once likened her. She stooped, the net jerked; she watched,
waited, tense to the act. Within the swirling water the great fish
plunged: she watched, strung to the pounce; the net dipped and darted; she
lifted it to land.
Chevenix admired. "By George, you are a one--er, I must say! Born to it.
You strike like an osprey. That's a fish--what?" They peered together into
the net, where, coiled and massy, beaming rose and pale gold, the trout
writhed.
"Splendid!" breathed Sanchia, glowing and alight.
Chevenix gloried in her beauty. "If Nevile don't know what his chances
are--if he ain't on his knees--my heavens, what a mate for a chap!"
A shadow falling upon him caused him to look up. Mrs. Devereux, grey and
tall, boa'd, gloved, umbrella'd, stood regarding him and his companion
from the bank. Instinct prompted him immediately to screen Sanchia by
dragging her into the party.
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