Without considering or understanding why, she began to experience an agreeable sense of restfulness and security in the silence which endured between them.

He stood full in the sunlight, very deeply preoccupied with the contents of his fly-book; she leaned back on the sun-scorched railing of the bridge, bathing-suit tucked under one arm, listening to the melody of the rushing stream below.

It seemed almost like the intimacy of old friendship, this quiet interval in the sun, with the moving shadows of leaves at their feet and the music of the water in their ears--a silence unbroken save by that, and the pure, sweet call-note of some woodland bird from the thickets beyond.
"What fly are you trying ?" she asked, dreamily conscious of the undisturbed accord.
"Wood-ibis--do you think they might come to it ?" he asked so naturally that a sudden glow of confidence in him, in the sunlit world around her, warmed her.
"Let me look at your book ?" He brought it.

Together they fumbled the brilliantly patterned aluminum leaves, fumbling with tufted silks and feathers, until she untangled a most alluringly constructed fly and drew it out, presenting it to him between forefinger and thumb.
"Shall we try it ?" "Certainly," he said.
Duane, carving hieroglyphics on the bark of the big beech, raised his head and looked after them.
"That's a pretty low trick," he said to himself, as they sauntered away toward the Gray Water.

And he scowled in silence and continued his carving..