“Cook some of ’em as soon as you can,” he said; then he followed the neat and also smiling chamber-maid up to his room, where, for all his pretended indolence and cynicism, Howard had caused his friend’s things to be laid out in readiness for him.  Stafford dressed slowly, smoking a cigarette during the operation, and still thinking of the strange “farmer’s daughter.”  And then he went down and joined Howard in the room he had ordered.

Lake hotels may lack the splendour to which we are all growing accustomed, and of which, alas! we are also growing rather wearied, but they are most of them extremely comfortable and cosy; and The Woodman at Carysford was no exception to the rule.  Stafford looked round the low-pitched room, with its old-fashioned furniture, its white dinner-cloth gleaming softly in the sunset and the fire-light, and sighed with a nod of satisfaction.

“This is something like, eh, old man?” he said; and even Howard deigned to nod approvingly.

“Yes,” he said.  “If anything could compensate one for the miseries of travel, especially that awful drive, this should do so.  I confess I had looked forward to a crowning discomfort in the shape of a cold and draughty and smelly room, fried chops or a gory leg of mutton and a heel of the cheese made by Noah in the Ark.  I fancy that we are going to have a decent dinner; and I trust I may not be disappointed, for it is about the only thing that will save my life.  Are you dry yet?  You looked as if you had been walking through a river instead of beside it.”

“That’s just what I have been doing,” said Stafford, with a laugh.  “I’ve had an adventure—­”

“I know,” interrupted Howard, with a sigh.  “You are going to tell me how you hooked a trout six foot in length, how it dragged you a mile and a half up the river, how you got it up to the bank, and how, just as you were landing it, it broke away and was lost.  Every man who has been fishing has that adventure.”

Stafford laughed with his usual appreciation of his friend’s amusing cynicism; but he did not correct him; for at that moment, the neat maid-servant brought in the trout, which proved to be piping hot and of a golden-brown; and the two men commenced a dinner which, as compared with the famous, or infamous one, of the London restaurant, was Olympian.  The landlord himself brought in a bottle of claret, which actually was sound, and another of port, in a wicker cradle, which even Howard deigned to approve of; and the two men, after they had lingered over their dinner, got into easy-chairs beside the fire and smoked their cigars with that sweet contentment which only tobacco can produce, and only then when it follows a really good meal.

“Do you know how long you are going to stay in your father’s little place?” Howard asked, after a long and dreary silence.

Stafford shrugged his shoulders slightly.