At the tea table Mr. Nelson gratified Mr. Sparkes by an allusion to almost the only topic—­apart from Chaffey’s—­which could draw that grave man into continuous speech.  Mr. Sparkes had but one recreation, that of angling; for many years he had devoted such hours of summer leisure as Chaffey’s granted him to piscatory excursions, were it only as far as the Welsh Harp.  Finding this young man disposed to lend a respectful ear, and to venture intelligent questions, he was presently discoursing at large.

“Chub?  Why chub’s a kind of carp, don’t you see.  There’s no fish pulls harder than a chub, not in the ordinary way of fishing.  A chub he’ll pull just like a little pig; he will indeed, if you believe me.”

“And a jack, uncle,” put in Minnie, who liked to please the old man.  “Doesn’t a jack pull hard?”

“Well, it’s like this, my dear; it depends on the bottom when it’s jack.  If the bottom’s weedy—­see?—­you must keep your line tight on a jack.  Let him run and you’re as like as not to lose thirty or forty yards of your line.”

“And the lines are expensive, aren’t they, uncle?”

“Well, my dear, I give eighteen and six for my preserved jack line—­hundred yards.  Eighteen and six!”

There followed one of his old stories, of a jack which had been eating up young ducklings on a certain pond; how he had baited for this fellow with a live duckling, the hook through the tips of its wings, got him in twenty minutes, and he turned the scale at four-and-twenty pounds.  Roach and perch were afterwards discussed.  In Mr. Sparkes’ opinion the best bait for these fish was a bit of dough kneaded up with loose wool.  Chaffey’s—­at all events, Chaffey’s of to-day—­would not have known its head waiter could it have seen and heard him as he thus held forth.  The hostess showed a fear lest Mr. Nelson should have more than enough of Cockney angling; but he and Minnie were at one in good-natured attentiveness, and in the end Mrs. Clover overcame her uneasiness.

A few days after this Minnie’s mother, overcoming a secret scruple and yielding to a long desire, allowed herself to write a letter to Mr. Gammon.  It was a very simple, not ill-composed letter; its object to express regret for the ill temper she had shown, now many weeks ago, on her parting with Mr. Gammon in Kennington Road.  Would he not look in at the china shop just in the old way?  It would please her very much, for indeed she had never meant or dreamt a termination to their friendship.  They had known each other so long.  Would not Mr. Gammon overlook her foolishness, remembering all she had had to go through?  So she signed herself his “friend always the same,” and having done so looked at the last line rather timidly, and made haste to close the letter.