CHAPTER X 

 FRANKLY IRRELEVANT 



A DRY-FLY MEMORY. 



In the Test Valley a good many years ago the coarse 

 herbage lay drying in the water-meadows in the 

 heavy swathes in which it had fallen to the scythe, 

 but all along the boggy edges of the streams and 

 carriers a tall screen had been left standing shoulder- 

 high, concealing the angler from the rising fish, but 

 compelling him, unfortunately, to stand and to fish 

 overhand instead of keeping low and switching a 

 horizontal line to his quarry. During the after- 

 noon a chilly wind from the north-west had 

 supervened upon the blazing heat that for a 

 week past had conjured such alluring visions of 

 the evening rise to end each July day. The sky 

 was overcast, and a troubled sun watched sulkily 

 from the far side of the valley, through dun rifts in 

 the clouds, the approach of two rods to the river- 

 side. It was almost too early to begin. Scarce 

 a fly was in the air, and only one sign of any pro- 

 mise gave any hint of possible success — the horses 

 in the meadow opposite, driven to madness by the 



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