I lunched with them.  The doctor recurred to the subject of my angling intentions, and asked his daughter if she had heard what parts of the stream at Barkingham were best for fishing in.

She replied, with a mixture of modest evasiveness and adorable simplicity, that she had sometimes seen gentlemen angling from a meadow-bank about a quarter of a mile below her flower-garden.  I risked everything in my usual venturesome way, and asked if she would show me where the place was, in case I called the next morning with my fishing-rod.  She looked dutifully at her father.  He smiled and nodded.  Inestimable parent!

On rising to take leave, I was rather curious to know whether he would offer me a bed in the house, or not.  He detected the direction of my thoughts in my face and manner, and apologized for not having a bed to offer me; every spare room in the house being occupied by his chemical assistants, and by the lumber of laboratories.  Even while he was speaking those few words, Alicia’s face changed just as I had seen it change at our first interview.  The downcast, gloomy expression overspread it again.  Her father’s eye wandered toward her when mine did, and suddenly assumed the same distrustful look which I remembered detecting in it, under similar circumstances, at Duskydale.  What could this mean?

The doctor shook hands with me in the hall, leaving the workman-like footman to open the door.

I stopped to admire a fine pair of stag’s antlers.  The footman coughed impatiently.  I still lingered, hearing the doctor’s footsteps ascending the stairs.  They suddenly stopped; and then there was a low heavy clang, like the sound of a closing door made of iron, or of some other unusually strong material; then total silence, interrupted by another impatient cough from the workman-like footman.  After that, I thought my wisest proceeding would be to go away before my mysterious attendant was driven to practical extremities.

Between thoughts of Alicia, and inquisitive yearnings to know more about the doctor’s experiments, I passed rather a restless night at my inn.

The next morning, I found the lovely mistress of my destiny, with the softest of shawls on her shoulders, the brightest of parasols in her hand, and the smart little straw hat of the day before on her head, ready to show me the way to the fishing-place.  If I could be sure beforehand that these pages would only be read by persons actually occupied in the making of love—­that oldest and longest-established of all branches of manufacturing industry—­I could go into some very tender and interesting particulars on the subject of my first day’s fishing, under the adorable auspices of Alicia.  But as I cannot hope for a wholly sympathetic audience—­as there may be monks, misogynists, political economists, and other professedly hard-hearted persons present among those whom I now address—­I think it best to keep to safe generalities, and to describe my love-making in as few sentences as the vast, though soft, importance of the subject will allow me to use.