"I want him to see the Gray Water before it's too late, with the
sunlight on the trees and the big trout jumping," protested Scott.

"I'll do my own jumping if you'll furnish the tub," observed Duane.
"Where's that agreeable maid who washes your guests' faces?"

Kathleen nodded an amused dismissal to them. Arm in arm they entered the
house, which was built out of squared blocks of field stone. Scott
motioned the servants aside and did the piloting himself up a broad
stone stairs, east along a wide sunny corridor full of nooks and angles
and antique sofas and potted flowers.

"Not that way," he said; "Dysart is in there taking a nap. Turn to the
left."

"Dysart?" repeated Duane. "I didn't know there was to be anybody else
here."

"I asked Jack Dysart because he's a good rod. Kathleen raised the deuce
about it when I told her, but it was too late. Anyway, I didn't know she
had no use for him. He's certainly clever at dry-fly casting. He uses
pneumatic bodies, not cork or paraffine."

"Is his wife here?" asked Duane carelessly.

"Yes. Geraldine asked her as soon as she heard I'd written to Jack. But
when I told her the next day that I expected you, too, she got mad all
over, and we had a lively talk-fest. What was there wrong in my having
you and the Dysarts here at the same time? Don't you get on?"