LOVE AND ANGLING. 233 



instant she takes a pen in hand, feels it a relief 

 to tell us where she paused over the sad for- 

 tunes of lovers in a story, and sympathized 

 with them. Some people should never write 

 their own love-letters. They should sit out a 

 romantic play together, go to a concert and 

 have their stalls side by side, visit a picture- 

 gallery in company. If they do not under- 

 stand each other afterwards, nothing will make 

 them, and the you remember the close of a 

 song of Sir John Suckling's ? . . . Kate 

 Dalrymple and I used to quarrel about every- 

 thing but Chopin's waltz music. It was 

 neither very profound or severely classical, or 

 thoughtful perhaps, or stately, but it suited 

 our moods. It resembled trout-fishing, too ; 

 it was not very difficult, it was dainty, its melo- 

 dies seem to run in quaint pastoral places, it 

 was coquettish, it rippled on the shallows, and 

 rolled swiftly and brightly in the sunshine, and 

 Kate it was who had taught me to like it. 



It was fully six o'clock when we drew near 

 Wimple Lodge. A carriage was drawn up be- 

 fore the door, and we could see Mr. Dalrymple 

 coming out to receive his expected guests. 



