"It is not too warm. It was much hotter than this in 1844, yet the
fish bit, I can tell you! Will you join us next Sunday in a fishing
expedition? I say 'us,' because one of your friends is coming, a great
amateur of the rod who honors me with his friendship, too."

"Who is he?"

"A secret, Monsieur Mouillard, a little secret. You will be surprised.
It is settled then--next Sunday?"

"Where shall I meet you?"

"Hush, the office-boy is listening. That boy is too sharp; I'll tell you
some other time."

"As you please, Monsieur Jupille; I accept the invitation
unconditionally."

"I am so glad you will come, Monsieur Mouillard. I only wish we could
have a little storm between this and then."

He spoke the truth; his satisfaction was manifest, for I never have seen
him rub the tip of his nose with the feathers of his quill pen so often
as he did that afternoon, which was with him the sign of exuberant joy,
all his gestures having subdued themselves long since to the limits of
his desk.


July 20th.