Mrs. Carruthers put her head into the smoke, coughed a little, and said:  “Come, father, supper is waiting for you in the breakfast room.”  The veteran followed his daughter, and, over his evening meal, gave her a detailed account of the proceedings of the afternoon.  “And to go away without a bite to eat, and ride all that distance, and leave his knapsack and his flowers and I don’t know what else behind him, what is the meaning of it, father?”

“Honoria, my dear, I aalways thought women’s eyes was cliverer nor min’s.  There’s a little gyurl they call Marjorie, an’ she’s not so little as aall that, if she isn’t quoite the hoighth av Miss Ceshile.  That bhoy was jist dishtracted wid the crool paice, that goes aff philanderin wid the Shivel Sharvice shape av a Lamb.  He didn’t say it moind in wurruds, but I see it was the killin’ av ’em, an’ he jist coulden’ shtand it no langer.  Smaal blame to him say Oi!”

So grandfather got his supper, and went back to the office to finish his pipe and his tumbler, while Timotheus was entertaining Tryphosa in the kitchen.  Mrs. Carruthers retired, but, first, she visited the young ladies’ apartment, and said, in a tone which she meant to be reproachful as well as regretful:  “Mr. Coristine has left us never to return.”  The kindest-hearted woman in the world, having thrown this drop of bitterness into her niece’s cup, left her to drink it to the dregs.  Meanwhile Orther Lom was dreaming that he could not do better than marry the Marjorie of his youth and begin housekeeping, in spite of tailors’ bills.

The sun rose bright on Friday morning, and, peeping in upon Mr. Bigglethorpe in his room and upon Marjorie in the nursery bedroom, awoke these two early birds.  They met on the stairs and came down together.  The fisherman said he thought he would get his things bundled up, meaning his gun and rods, and walk home to breakfast, but Marjorie said he just wouldn’t, for Eugene was gone, and, if he were to go, she would have nobody.  Well broken in to respect for feminine authority, save when the fishing fit was on, Mr. Bigglethorpe had to succumb, and travel down to the creek after crawfish, chub and dace.  He told his youthful companion fishing stories which amused her; and confided to her that he was going to train up his little boy to be a great fisherman.  “Have you got a little boy, Mr. Biggles?” she asked, and then added:  “How funny!” as if her friend ought to have been content with other people’s children, and fish.

“What is his name, Mr. Biggles?” she enquired.

“He hasn’t been christened yet, but I think I’ll call him Isaac Walton, or Charles Cotton, or Piscator.  Don’t you think these are nice nimes?”

“No, I don’t.  Woollen and Cotton and what Mr. Perrowne belongs to are not pretty.  Eugene is pretty.”

Mr. Bigglethorpe laughed, and said:  “I didn’t say Woollen but Walton, and I said Piscator, which is the Latin for fisher, not Episcopalian, which Mr. Perrowne is.”