Lionel followed his example, and Mr. Fairthorn, courageously emerging,
also took a chair and a roll. "You are a true diviner, Mr. Darrell,"
said Lionel; "it is a glorious day."

"But there will be showers later. The fish are at play on the surface of
the lake," Darrell added, with a softened glance towards Fairthorn, who
was looking the picture of misery. "After twelve, it will be just the
weather for trout to rise; and if you fish, Mr. Fairthorn will lend you a
rod. He is a worthy successor of Izaak Walton, and loves a companion as
Izaak did, but more rarely gets one."

"Are there trout in your lake, sir?"

"The lake! You must not dream of invading that sacred water. The
inhabitants of rivulets and brooks not within my boundary are beyond the
pale of Fawley civilization, to be snared and slaughtered like Caifres,
red men, or any other savages, for whom we bait with a missionary and
whom we impale on a bayonet. But I regard my lake as a politic
community, under the protection of the law, and leave its denizens to
devour each other, as Europeans, fishes, and other cold-blooded creatures
wisely do, in order to check the overgrowth of population. To fatten one
pike it takes a great many minnows. Naturally I support the vested
rights of pike. I have been a lawyer."

It would be in vain to describe the manner in which Mr. Darrell vented
this or similar remarks of mocking irony or sarcastic spleen. It was not
bitter nor sneering, but in his usual mellifluous level tone and
passionless tranquillity.

The breakfast was just over as a groom passed in front of the windows